


Something To Sleep To

by missmichellebelle



Series: Paper Flowers [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Coma, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 51,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What started as a volunteer gig at Lima Memorial is slowly turning into a fairy tale for Kurt Hummel. Except Kurt is pretty doubtful that a kiss is going to wake his Prince Charming from his coma.</p><p>
  <b>THIS WORK IS UNFINISHED. IT HAS BEEN DISCONTINUED.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“And this is Blaine.”

Kurt’s eyes rove over the prone body snug beneath the stark hospital sheets, shuffling his weight from foot to foot as he stands beside the nurse. Blaine’s young, which is not something Kurt had expected and it certainly unnerves him. He’s _too_ young, because he can’t be much older than Kurt himself (if he’s older at all) and he shouldn’t be in a coma. But that doesn’t stop the fact that he is.

He’s dressed in pajamas, or so Kurt can assume from the very soft-looking heather grey t-shirt Blaine is wearing, but he’s also covered in bandages and bruises. His face is handsome, Kurt can tell, despite the fact that it’s a mottled rainbow of colors around his eyes and nose and that his head is wrapped up pretty thoroughly. If Kurt didn’t see his side burns, Blaine might as well have been bald.

“He’s only been open for visitors for about a day or two, but you’re the first volunteer to come see him.” That’s all the nurse says before she smiles at him and leaves the room and Kurt is left with a comatose stranger.

The hospital wasn’t his first choice as far as places-to-volunteer go. It’s a little early to start his college-application-volunteering; Kurt is only a sophomore and he certainly has time. But schools like McKinley don’t exactly have a lot of reputation and he needs every last bit of leverage to get himself out of Ohio and to New York. It would be nice if there was a way to do volunteer work without exposing himself to something unpleasant, but he did choose entertaining hospital patients to old people.

Kurt just hadn’t expected his first assignment to be a young guy in a coma.

Glancing around, he pulls up a chair, careful to maneuver it around any wires—it would be just his luck to kill the poor guy while trying to keep him company. The thing is, Kurt doesn’t really know if Blaine’s aware he’s there. He’s never dealt with a person in a coma before so how is he supposed to know what to do?

“They say that people in comas know what’s going on around them.” It seems like a good place to start. He’s sure that Blaine doesn’t know much about comas, either, even if he _is_ in one. “So, um, I’m Kurt. I volunteer here at the hospital. And I figure it’s nicer to listen to someone talk rather than some beeping monitors.” Was that in poor taste? Maybe Blaine _likes_ being able to hear that he is still alive. Kurt’s eyes flicker to the machine, but it just keeps beeping as if he’s not even there at all.

“I, um, didn’t really expect this. I mean, if I’d known I would have brought a book or something to read. A magazine, maybe—I could keep you up to date on all the latest fashion and gossip.” Kurt grins, but it slips off his face, and he taps a finger against the railing on the bed. It reminds him of those beds toddlers sleep in as they transition from cribs to real beds and frowns slightly, assessing Blaine. His injuries jump out against his olive skin and Kurt wonders briefly what exactly is wrong with him and how it happened.

It’s patient privacy, he knows, that keeps him from getting this information. After all, the volunteers are there to bring smiles and laughter, not to nose about in people’s business. But Kurt doubts Blaine will smile at him any time soon.

“You know, I never realized how hard it was to have a conversation with myself until I tried it. Who knew, right? So, um, I guess I’ll tell you about my day?” Kurt chews his lip for a moment before scooting the chair a bit closer and crossing his legs. “I go to McKinley High. I doubt you go there, because I’m sure I would have seen you. Or you would have seen me. It’s not a very diverse school, I’m afraid. I’m a sophomore—you look around that age, too, so you’ll probably appreciate my mundane high school life and all the drama that accompanies it.” The longer Kurt talks, the easier he finds the words, and he leans forward a bit as he continues. “At least, you can sympathize with it.

“Anyways, so I’m in my school’s Glee club—New Directions. Our assignment this week is Madonna…”

* * *

“I’m home!”

Crouching in the small tiled rectangle that serves as their entryway, Kurt begins working at unlacing his boots. A shadow falls across him and he glances up to see his father standing in the opening to the living room, holding what appears to be a microwave dinner (and Kurt knows that, if it appears to be, it most certainly _is_.)

“Hey kiddo. How was the hospital?” Burt Hummel looks down at his son over his food, prodding at something in the cardboard with his fork so that it’s easy to see the steam streaking off of it.

“Fine.” Kurt shrugs dismissively, standing as his boots come completely off. He picks them up and then looks at his dad’s dinner choice with a frown of disapproval and a raised eyebrow. “What is _that_?”

“Dinner.” His dad shrugs with one shoulder and turns back towards the living room, where Kurt can hear the distinct sound of some sport or another coming from the TV. He rolls his eyes, knowing full well that his dad is using football or baseball or whatever as a deterrent against Kurt’s disapproval, so he heads towards the kitchen to fix himself something healthy and start on his homework.

His visit at the hospital _had_ been fine. He’d only stayed with Blaine for about an hour before a nurse had come in to turn him. The whole situation had been awkward enough that Kurt had excused himself and spent his other hour in the pediatrics ward watching cartoons with a little girl who had broken her leg.

As strange as it had been at first, Kurt realized that he’d actually enjoyed his time spent with Blaine. Which was strange, in and of itself, because Blaine hadn’t done much of anything. But Kurt has to admit to himself that it was nice having someone just listen to him talk. He supposes if he ever went to a therapist for some reason it would feel much the same, except therapists generally had something to say. Blaine, really, is just a very good listener.

Grinning to himself, Kurt pulls his geometry homework from his bag as he waits for water to boil. Maybe he’ll visit Blaine again

* * *

“So how often are you doing this hospital gig? It’s not gonna interfere with Glee, is it?” Closing his locker, Kurt turns towards Mercedes and rolls his eyes affectionately.

“If you mean will it interfere with our super fabulous, top secret Madonna project, then no, it will not. I’m only going twice a week.” Leaning against the locker wall, he taps his fingers against his Spanish book in thought, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Not that it will be hard to stand out in Ohio. I doubt many of the apes at this school even know what volunteer work _is_.”

He links their arms together, beginning to make their way down the hall, eyes shooting around to check for red and white or outstretched slushie cups.

“Kurt, you stand out _anywhere_.” He preens at her compliment and she hugs his arm closer. “You enjoying it?” He raises one of his shoulders in a half shrug.

“I’ve only been the one time, and I spent the whole time talking to Blaine—”

“Blaine? A _boy?_ ” Her eyes widen as her lips tip up in an excited smile. “A _cute_ boy?”

Kurt scoffs. “Well, considering he was covered in bruises, bandages, plaster, and is _in a coma_ , I wasn’t exactly checking him out.” Well, not really, but it was difficult to talk to someone for an hour and not _look_ at them. And appreciate the curve and length of someone’s eyelashes and the definition of their arms. “Besides,” he continues, negotiating them past an “enthusiastic” couple. “I’m interested in someone,” he sniffs, eyes darting to the side just in time to catch sight of that _someone_. Mercedes follows his gaze and sighs.

“Boy, you need to give that _up_.” His attention snaps back to Mercedes in a glare and he lifts his chin.

“You don’t give up a battle that’s hardly been started, darling.”


	2. Chapter 2

Kurt doesn’t go back to the hospital on Thursday like he’s supposed to. After all, he’s a _Cheerio_ now and he has much more important things to do. Like attend practices. On top of that and Glee, he wonders how he’ll have time for volunteering. But cutting it down to once a week won’t really hurt him, especially since he’s picked up another extracurricular activity. After all, he ’d much rather spend time around a hoard of prissy cheerleaders than the infirm (and _that’s_ saying something).

When he comes back the next Tuesday, there’s no helpful nurse to guide him to patients. Kurt spends a few moments standing awkwardly in front of the nurse’s station before he begins wandering towards the children’s ward. The little girl from last week hadn’t seemed to hate him, and had actually laughed when he’d done commentary on the cartoons they’d been watching.

A part of him debates going to see Blaine, but he decides against it. After all, his time is more well spent with someone who knows he’s actually there, right?

* * *

As it turns out, little girls are far more interested in watching iCarly than listening to how Kurt gave Coach Sylvester a make-over. The girl, Amanda, also isn’t interested in how Kurt is a Cheerio now or how him and Mercedes had destroyed their solos at the pep rally. So he spends a good half an hour dissecting a teeny bopper love triangle that he may or may not be making up, but Amanda seems to be eating it up all the same.

Either way, he excuses himself at the promise of more Miranda Cosgrove and makes his way quickly from the pediatrics ward.

He ends up at Blaine’s door without even realizing it and finds himself peaking inside. After all, if there’s someone in there with him it would be rude to just walk in. But the room is empty and quiet, just the sound of machinery, and the emptiness of it pulls at Kurt’s heart uncomfortably.

Blaine might be in a coma, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve _somebody_. Kurt knows what it’s like to feel alone even when he’s surrounded by a crowd of people. What must it be like for Blaine, who can’t even express any loneliness he feels?

“Are you lonely?” Kurt finds himself asking as he moves the chair back to Blaine’s bedside. He sits for a few moments, just watching Blaine with sad eyes, catching the slight rise and fall of his chest. Then he laughs slightly, realizing how ridiculous he is, and how crazy he must seem to be laughing in a room with a coma patient. He glances over his shoulder, as if to look for any nurses judging him, but no one’s there.

“You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” Kurt asks him quietly as he turns back to Blaine. It’s not as if he expects an answer—after all, this isn’t a movie and things like that simply don’t happen. And, much to his expectations, Blaine doesn’t do so much as flinch and Kurt can’t help but smile. “I’ll take your silence as a yes.”

Kurt settles further into the chair, listening to the blip of the machines for a minute.

“I went to see Amanda—she’s a nine year old who broke her leg in two places in gymnastics. But she isn’t quite the conversationalist you are. That, and I can only stomach so much preteen entertainment.” Kurt shudders and imagines that maybe Blaine would smile at that. Not a lot of people get Kurt’s sense of humor, but Blaine seems like the type of person who would. Maybe. Kurt can hope, after all.

“To be honest, this feels sort of strange to me.” Kurt doesn’t know where the words come from, but it feels _wrong_ to make things up to Blaine. After all, he’s had so much wrong done to him (or so Kurt can assume) and it’s not like Blaine is going to turn a judging eye on him. He could argue, though, that Blaine doesn’t care if he’s honest, either. But at least being honest doesn’t tend to carry guilt.

“I mean, I feel like one of those people that surround themselves with pets and then use them to replace their social life. I mean, I _have_ a social life, I have friends. I told you about them. And you’re, you’re not like… A dog or cat or something, you’re a person.” Kurt stops, taking a breath and sighing. “Wow, I’m usually good about not letting my mouth run away with me.” He had to be. It was a part of being Kurt Hummel, after all. Cool, collected, smarter than everybody else—if he had verbal vomit it would certainly blow that.

But Blaine doesn’t know Kurt Hummel, the resident gay of McKinley High. He just knows Kurt, the hospital volunteer. Well, if he knows Kurt _at all_.

“I wonder what kind of person you are,” Kurt murmurs softly, once he’s collected himself. “I used to pride myself on judging people based on their appearance, but I never realized how much of that relied on body language.” And breathing isn’t anything to go off of; all it tells Kurt is that Blaine is alive, which is good, but alive really isn’t a personality trait.

“You have ridiculous eyebrows,” he concludes after a moment of inspection. “And you really need to shave. You weren’t nearly this scruffy when I saw you last Tuesday.” Kurt can’t help but be slightly jealous; he hasn’t hit the point in puberty yet where he can grow facial hair, not that he has any desire to have a mustache or something ridiculous. But it would be nice to have the _option_.

He wonders, just for a moment, if anyone comes in to look after Blaine. Does Blaine like being scruffy? Does he like wearing the same grey t-shirt all the time? (And, _ew_ , what if he’s been wearing it since last _week?_ ) Kurt wonders if he should leave guidelines somewhere, incase he’s ever in a coma and someone needs to be told to change his clothing at least every other day (because, seriously, _gross_ ). But it seems strange to even consider doing something like that, and so he pushes the thought promptly from his mind almost as quickly as it entered.

“You’d look good in bolder colors. The grey is nice, of course, but with your skin tone—I have to admit, I’m jealous. If I wear too much white or black, I end up looking like some cheap attempt at a Halloween costume.” Not that it deters him entirely, but Kurt has found the way to balance the monochromatic without looking like he just stepped out of a silent film.

He imagines Blaine in all sorts of colors. Maroon, indigo, emerald, even a buttery yellow. His nose scrunches. Maybe _not_ yellow.

“You have to have more clothes, right?” Kurt’s eyes scan the room but he doubts they’d just leave Blaine’s personal belongings sitting around a hospital room. He huffs slightly, as if this completely puts a roadblock in his plans, and looks back at Blaine.

“I hate hospitals,” Kurt says without preamble. He does though, and has, ever since his mom passed away. There had been a hospital then, too, and she had looked so bland in a hospital room with the starkness of it all. A part of him hates it, hates that Blaine has to look so lifeless and small in his grey t-shirt and white sheets. This room saps the life out of him, makes him a part of it. Blaine has become less of a person and simply another part of the décor.

Something shifts in Kurt. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but he does find himself squirming in his chair. Suddenly, as if he just noticed that even in his red and white Cheerios uniform, he’s the brightest thing in this room. Kurt Hummel is used to being a head turner, but there are no heads to turn here. There is no one to look. He is an anomaly in a too-grey, too-quiet hospital room.

This is where a decision is made. Kurt knows he can get up and leave. He can leave Blaine, he can leave the hospital, and he can forget the few hours he’s spent there. He’ll no longer be an outsider in yet another place and his life will tip back on kilter, back to normal.

Kurt looks at Blaine. Looks at the way his chest rises and falls so very subtly, just a quiet hint of life. Blaine is breathing, even if Kurt can’t hear the way the air shifts and slips. He looks closer at the lines of Blaine’s face. He’s young, but there’s a slight crinkle around his eyes that Kurt would scold anyone else for. Laugh lines, the sort of marks on skin that show an enjoyment for life and for smiling. Kurt will never have them, but Blaine already does.

He settles into his chair, crossing his legs, and the decision is made. This isn’t a place for him, but it isn’t a place for Blaine, either. Kurt picks up his hand, carefully, surprised by how warm and alive it is as he sandwiches it between his own palms and looks at Blaine with slow, careful glances.

“You really _do_ need to shave.”


	3. Chapter 3

Surprisingly, Kurt finds Blaine’s hospital room a rather fitting place to do his homework. He’s never been the sort to have trouble doing it, but it certainly helps to erase all possible distractions. He doesn’t have the temptation to start cooking dinner early or to take an hour break to arrange his outfit for the next day. Even the beeping of the machine has become a steady lull in the background, a tempo that grounds him without diverting his attention.

“You know, there are definitely important reasons for taking Spanish, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy doing the work for it,” Kurt groans, letting his pen dip into the crevice of the book and turning to look at Blaine. There hasn’t been a change since earlier, except Kurt may have set a few things on the open spaces on the bed. No nurse has come to yell at him yet, so he figures it’s okay (maybe).

“My French classes are much more interesting. Ducks take to water like Kurt Hummel takes to French.” He grins, tilting his chin up as if proud of his reversal. He cocks his head to the side, looking at Blaine. “Come on, you know that was funny.”

Blaine groans.

Kurt sits up suddenly, his Spanish book slipping from his lap and thudding to the ground. He knows the pages will crease, but that’s the least of his concerns. For a few long moments, he just stares at Blaine. That—no, that must have been one of the machines or something. There’s no way Blaine just groaned. Blaine _doesn’t_ groan. He doesn’t move or flutter his eyes or _make noises_.

“Blai—”

Another groan and Kurt is standing up, quickly pushing all of his stuff off the bed and nearly tripping over himself. Blaine is groaning! Groaning! Kurt stands there, fingers and hands twitching as if he has no idea what he’s supposed to do. Because Blaine is groaning. People in comas don’t groan, do they? Maybe Kurt should have done research on people in comas but—no, that’s ridiculous. He didn’t know he’d be seeing Blaine ever again and volunteers aren’t supposed to have medical knowledge, right? They’d just let him sign up! He doesn’t even know CPR!

Okay, no, he needs to calm down. Because Blaine is waking up. Blaine is waking up! No, that’s really not helping him calm down. Kurt suddenly wishes he was wearing something other than his Cheerios uniform, because, really, what kind of impression does that give? ‘ _I think he’ll be more surprised at the random guy in his hospital room!_ ’ Right. Because even if Kurt sort of knows Blaine, Blaine does _not_ know him. Unless he’s really been asleep this whole time and is just a wonderful actor.

Because normal people totally pretend to be in comas.

His feet are moving before he realizes it, but Kurt comes to himself before he does something horrific like knock over the chair or unplug vital machinery. He’s at the doorway in a matter of moments, grabbing the first person in those disgusting hospital scrubs that he sees.

“E-excuse me, it’s—he—” Kurt’s eyes must be doing a much better job than he is at explaining the situation, because the nurse takes one look at him before quickly turning on her heel and rushing past him into the room. They only lock eyes for a few moments, but something about her seems familiar and kind. Is it the same nurse from last week? Kurt can’t even remember that one’s name.

“Would you mind telling me what happened?” Her voice isn’t demanding or even annoyed, and she looks at Kurt briefly with patient understanding before bustling around machines. Kurt stands there, wringing his fingers and hands and wishing he wasn’t so ostentatious for once so he could blend in with the hospital walls.

“I… I was just talking to him, and then. He groaned! He groaned twice! And coma patients don’t groan, they—” He stops when he notices the nurse is just looking at him now, but her face isn’t horrified or happy. She wears a tight, small smile, but it’s not a happy one. If anything, she looks vaguely sad.

She turns towards Blaine, adjusting the sheets that don’t need adjusting and then brushing her fingers against his face. Kurt’s breath catches in his throat at the gesture and he isn’t quite sure why, his eyes following the movements.

“Your bruises are starting to look better, sweetheart,” she says quietly before she stands up again, looking over at Kurt. She doesn’t say anything about the mess of school supplies he’d pushed onto the ground, but moves back towards him after shooting one last look at Blaine.

“Isn’t he—” Kurt doesn’t finish his sentence as the same sad smile graces the nurse’s face. _Isn’t he going to wake up?_ Kurt wants to ask, his eyes darting nervously to look at Blaine. Isn’t he supposed to turn his head and open his eyes and… And smile or something? That’s what’s supposed to happen.

“No, I’m afraid not,” she says with a shake of her head.

“But he… He groaned.” Kurt’s voice weakens as he speaks, and he realizes as soon as he says it that it doesn’t matter.

“How much do you know about comas, sweetie?” The nurse smiles gently. She isn’t mocking him and seems genuinely curious, but Kurt is suddenly berating himself for not knowing anything. When he doesn’t answer, the nurse presses a hand between his shoulder blades and guides him out into the hall. She nearly closes the door, leaving it open enough that Kurt can still see a sliver of Blaine’s face. When she does speak, her voice is hushed.

“People think comas are just people sleeping, and in a lot of ways that’s true. Except that there’s no way to wake him up. You could slap him across the face—please don’t, though, I shouldn’t have even said that—and he still wouldn’t wake up.” Kurt hadn’t considered trying to wake Blaine up, but now he definitely has no plans to.

“People in comas have been known to make noises, shift, even open their eyes. It’s a good sign, it means he isn’t in too deeply.” The nurse wears the same small smile again, the one that doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘ _She’s worried._ ’ Just the thought of it makes Kurt’s chest constrict uncomfortably.

The nurse is looking at him again, a bit more curiously, and Kurt remembers, again, what he’s wearing. ‘ _Seriously, change next time._ ’

“You go to McKinley?” It’s the last possible question he expected, and Kurt blinks dumbly at her for a moment before nodding. Vaguely, he debates making a snappy comment (“ _no, I just like wearing random high school cheerleading uniforms_ ”) but something stops him. Maybe it’s the way the nurse had explained what happened to Blaine, or how she had showed Blaine such affection. He isn’t quite sure.

“I thought you looked familiar. My son goes there.” Dread curls uncomfortably in his stomach as he tries to imagine who her son could be. Is he a football player? Someone who torments Kurt on a regular basis? Will he have to act pleasant about someone who doesn’t even see him as a living, breathing human being?

“Does he?” Kurt’s voice betrays him, coming out higher than it had moments before, but she doesn’t seem to notice (at least, she doesn’t react to the change).

“Yes, he’s on the football team.” The dread solidifies. “You were on the football team, weren’t you?” Kurt nods stiffly, but she doesn’t seem satisfied with that alone. “No, that’s—You’re in Glee club, aren’t you?” Her eyes light up in a way that Kurt doesn’t understand.

How would she—

“Do you know Finn?”

Kurt is almost positive he stops breathing. He manages to nod somehow, and she grins.

“Carole Hudson. I’m Finn’s mother.” Kurt is pretty sure he’s gaping as Carole holds out her hand, but he grabs it and shakes it the way he was taught. His dad always told him that you could learn a lot about a person depending on their handshake. Kurt just hopes his is as firm as he’d practiced it and isn’t like loose spaghetti (because that’s certainly what he feels like right now).

“Are you going to the parent teacher night tonight?” The question whooshes out of him as his brain begins to turn. He’s planning before she even registers the question.

“I was actually on my way out when you stopped me.” She smiles at him and Kurt swiftly falls from panicked hospital volunteer to the nicest, politest teenage boy Carole Hudson could ever meet.

“I’m supposed to go with my dad. He was going to come and get me here, but, as you know, it’s a little out of the way.” He pauses and she smiles, nodding as if she understands and sympathizes. “Do you think maybe you could give me a ride?”

Carole seems surprised by the question, her eyes sweeping over Kurt curiously before she smiles. “I don’t see why not. How sweet of you. Finn would never come to one of these things.” Kurt figured as much, but tonight isn’t about Finn (well, not completely), it’s about Carole… And his dad.

“I just need to go and change. You call your dad, okay?” Kurt just smiles and nods as Carole whisks away and he tries not to do a victory dance. Slipping back into the room, he begins shoving things into his bag while shooting a text message to his dad (his dad doesn’t really text, but he can read them just fine). He frets for a minute about having to go in his _Cheerios uniform_ , but he’ll have to deal.

He looks at Blaine excitedly while he slings his bag across his body and beams. “Finn Hudson’s _mom_ ,” he mouths, afraid she might sneak up on him at any moment. It’s silent for a moment and then he laughs, realizing Blaine can’t exactly read lips right now.

“I have to go, but. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” _Tomorrow_. Kurt smiles and then nods, backing towards the door.

“Yes. Definitely tomorrow.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I don’t even _know_ what she was wearing, but it’s certainly something I need to address. My dad seemed to _like_ the whole acid wash combination—”

“Kurt.”

“And her hair. Mercedes, you would not believe—”

“Did you really say—”

“—her hair. I understand she had just been working, but it was honestly no excuse. If she—”

“—that thing about dead spouses?”

“—got the proper hair cut, it would function appropriately at work and in social settings. I’ve already been perusing ideas—”

“I think you’re taking this a bit—”

“Do you think it would be weird if I took her shopping? No, of course not. Mrs. Hudson already loves me, I can tell. I just need to—”

“—far? Kurt?”

“—find a time that won’t interfere. Obviously I’ll be making the hospital a more constant occurrence, and on top of Glee and Cheerios and homework, I don’t want her to think I just have this abundance of free time. Do I? She doesn’t seem like the sort of—”

“ **Kurt**.”

Kurt pauses mid stretch, turning to look at Mercedes with pursed lips at being interrupted. They stare at one another for a few moments before they return to their stretching. Well, mostly Kurt, as Mercedes continues to do some sort of attempt at a butterfly. He knows not everyone is as flexible as him (it’s a gift, really) and he isn’t about to hold those standards up to his best friend, Cheerio or not.

“Don’t you think you’re taking this too far? This whole Finn thing?”

Kurt turns to glare at her and she holds her hands up, as if in surrender, but her face is serious.

“I’m just saying, Kurt. You’re dragging your dad into this now, and his mom.”

“It’s not like they _hate_ each other, Mercedes. They were _flirting_. I did them a _favor_.”

“Really?” Mercedes sounds skeptical and Kurt doesn’t even deem to look at her.

“ _Really_. You know, they will date, get to know one another, I’ll continue volunteering at the hospital, Mrs. Hudson will fall in love with me, and then Finn will.” Mercedes is still looking at him, staring at his back.

“ _Kurt._ ”

“Don’t.” Kurt knows that voice. Has heard it so many times. Mercedes is his best friend and he doesn’t need to hear it from her, too, even if he still does. They don’t understand. None of them do. Mercedes might not have a boyfriend now, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have the _option_. She has options. Kurt doesn’t.

“I’m going to do this, Mercedes. And as my best friend, it would be nice to have your support.” She doesn’t respond and the quiet begins stretching between them. Coach Sylvester’s whistle cuts through it fiercely, and there she is, striding onto the field and ready to start practice.

Mercedes appears at his arm, looping them together and smiling at him softly and unsurely. “Come on, let’s go.”

* * *

Wednesday wasn’t part of the original plan, but Kurt has a new plan now. A new plan that requires visiting the hospital as often as physically possible.

He shows up, showered and dressed in something other than his uniform, and holding a bright bouquet of wildflowers. Blaine seems like a wildflowers sort of person, even if it had been a completely last minute idea.

He’s stopped by a nurse as he signs in, and she eyes the flowers warily.

“I’m going to have to take those from you.” Her voice grits against his ears unpleasantly and he finds himself hugging the bouquet closer to his chest.

“Why?” He asks, affronted.

“Hospital policy. We ask that visitors do not bring flowers or anything that produces allergens, along with anything that could pose a potential threat to patients.” _Oh_. Kurt looks sadly at the bouquet, not because he spent almost twenty dollars on it but because he’d wanted to bring something for Blaine.

“They’re _just_ flowers,” Kurt insists, still holding them close to his chest. The nurse just continues to stare at him, her expression not amused and not inching. “He’s in a _coma_ , it’s not as if he’s going to prick his fingers on some nonexistent thorns or something.” Kurt realizes that his voice is increasing in volume and that a few people walking past are looking at him.

“Sir.” The nurse’s voice has hardened as she glares at him. “If you do not hand over the flowers, I will have you escorted from the facility.”

Staring at her, Kurt frowns in obvious distaste. What kind of bad day does a person have to have to kick someone out of a hospital over _flowers?_ She has to be kidding. But she doesn’t seem to be bluffing, and he sees her hand hovering just under the desk. Is that where the security button is?

Giving her the nastiest glare he can manage, Kurt hands the flowers over wordlessly and stalks away. _Bitch._

* * *

“How are you this afternoon, Blaine?” Kurt sweeps into the room, moving his chair and settling into it. He sets his bag down, contemplating if he’ll do his homework here or at home. If Kurt hadn’t been doing this whole visiting-Blaine-thing for a few days now, it would have felt strange to fall so easily into a routine. Well, stranger, but he’s pretty sure he’s getting used to it.

“I dressed up today. Well, I’m not in my uniform. You’d like this sweater, I think. Alexander McQueen.” Kurt preens slightly as he crosses his legs. In his mind, Blaine appreciates things like fashion and designer labels. “I’ll be sure to show you the best places to bargain hunt, and eBay is a _godsend_. Not literally, but… We don’t need to get into _that_.”

He vaguely wonders if Blaine believes in the whole _god_ thing or not. Does it help to believe in something when you’re in a coma? Kurt really doesn’t know and hopes he never does. But it probably helps not to talk about his atheism right at that moment.

“Oh, yesterday! I said I’d tell you, didn’t I? That’s why I’m here.” Kurt pauses, inching his chair even closer and then smiling slightly. “And to see you, of course.” Kurt has other people to talk to, that’s not all Blaine is. He doesn’t want Blaine to think that he’s just there for Kurt to unload on. He _isn’t_. They’re friends… In a really weird sort of way that Kurt can’t exactly explain.

“So, um, your nurse is Finn’s mom. Finn, as you will soon become aware of, is this boy I go to school with and he’s just…” Kurt pauses, looking into the space above Blaine’s body as if it provides him with some sort of inspiration or answer. “He doesn’t treat me the way the other guys at school do, you know? He’s _nice_ to me.” Kurt’s fingers fiddle together as if they can’t possibly settle. This is what love feels like, right? This fluttery, unnerving feeling? It _must_ be.

“I introduced his mom to my dad last night.” This time he does pause, glancing over his shoulder at the open door to make sure there aren’t any eavesdropping nurses. Especially ones that his dad was making moon eyes at the night before.

“It’s genius, isn’t it?” His voice becomes hushed anyways and he leans closer. It’s the closest he’s ever been to Blaine and when he breathes he can smell him. Not like he’s doing it intentionally, he’s pretty sure smelling coma patients is _not_ something he’s into; he simply can’t help it. And Blaine smells _good_. It’s not the generic scent of hospital soap he’d been expecting, but something spicy like cinnamon. It’s warm somehow and it reminds Kurt of hot chocolate and Christmas.

But it’s what’s underneath all the smell of a particularly good body wash (and did they bathe him with a personal one? Oh dear god, they _bathed_ him, _naked_ , and Kurt needs to stop thinking about that _right now_ , what is _wrong_ with him?) that makes Kurt linger a little longer than necessary. He knows the smell, has smelt it hundreds of times through his life, but it still almost makes his eyes close in complete contentment.

Kurt has smelled boys before. Not in a creepy sense, but he’s taken gym and been averting his eyes since he was twelve. Not all boys smelt good and he’d spent plenty of time making sure he didn’t smell like boy in a _bad_ way. Blaine didn’t smell like boy in a bad way, not at all. In fact, Kurt can feel himself being drawn in closer, feeling the urge to—

A cart squeals by loudly in the hall and Kurt snaps back, his spine colliding with the chair almost painfully. He glances around, suddenly nervous, as if someone is about to come in and reprimand him for—What? What _exactly_ had he been doing?

“I.” His mouth feels dry as he turns back to Blaine and his tongue runs along his lower lip, as if that will bring back his use of words. It doesn’t do much of anything except remind him that he has lips and _why is that such a bad thought process right now?_

“What was I talking about?” As if Blaine will tell him or help him remember. If only.

“Oh, right, um. My dad and Mrs. Hudson and Finn…” The name feels slightly heavy on his tongue, as if a sudden contrast to the airy way he’d just been feeling moments before. He brushes the thought away.

“But it’s genius, isn’t it?” Kurt doesn’t lean in but continues to lower his voice, his excitement building and smoothing over any remnant of discomfort he’d been feeling. “My dad and his mom date, get closer, and it’s a _reason_ for Finn and I to be closer. We could _live_ together.” Kurt places a hand over his heart, smiling more than he ever allows himself as he pictures it.

Surely, _surely_ , once Finn sees how remarkable Kurt is outside of the oppressive walls of McKinley he’ll understand. He’ll see how perfect they are for each other. And then no one will touch him, touch them, because Finn _has_ everything. Surely he wants to share it with Kurt.

“Finn will realize he’s in love with me. I mean, we don’t interact enough at school for such an epiphany to come to him, but it _will_. Then… I’ll have someone to hold hands with. To kiss.” Kurt reaches dreamily up to touch his lips, his eyes and mind distant and elsewhere, focusing on a place where he is loved and listened to by someone other than his father.

“Mercedes—my best friend, I told you about her—she. She doesn’t _get_ it. No one _gets_ it. They don’t understand what it’s like for me, at that school, in this _state_. There’s…” Kurt just shakes his head, falling off mid sentence.

“I didn’t really have anyone before Glee club, not _really_. When you’re a pretty reliable target for bullying, people… They don’t… They don’t want to _sacrifice_ their own dignity to be friends with someone. Which is fine, of course. I know how to be on my own, and I…” Kurt stops again, staring at Blaine and the smooth skin of his neck as it disappears into that _stupid_ grey t-shirt.

“I _hate_ it.” It slips out quiet and broken, swallowed by the silence of the hospital room and only words to Kurt and Blaine. “Ever since my mom died, I’ve just been… Alone. All the time. And my dad tries, he does, and he’s gotten so much better since I came out. I _love_ my dad, but it’s not the same. I can’t… I can’t tell him what happens at school, what they _do_ to me. It’s hard for him, I know it is, I know what people _say_ to him.”

Kurt’s voice catches, much to his surprise, and he slaps his hand over his mouth in alarm. He doesn’t—Kurt Hummel _does not cry_ if he can help it. He does not show weakness because that’s how they’ll get him one day. They’ll see the crack and they’ll go at it, again and again, until he shatters. Shatters like porcelain, just as Coach Sylvester’s nickname dictates.

“Finn could be that person,” he begins again, once his voice is under control. “He… Well, he never directly threw me into any dumpsters or slushied me. And he always let me set my bag and jacket down before, so they didn’t get destroyed. Sometimes when I was locker checked, he’d say something—I mean, after, because he wouldn’t know it was coming. He… He smiles at me sometimes.” Kurt feels himself flush and ducks his head. Because Finn _smiles_ at him.

Blaine groans, snapping Kurt from his reverie and making him jump just a little. He doesn’t overturn the chair this time, or run from the room, but watches Blaine and the slightest twitch of his neck as he groans for a second time. He listens this time, can tell Blaine has a deep voice—at least, deeper than _his_ but that isn’t saying very much. He wonders, briefly, what it sounds like.

“Finn.” His voice starts almost without his permission, pulling him from any and all thoughts he was having of Blaine. “He… I mean, you don’t see it. Mercedes doesn’t either, not really. It doesn’t sound like a lot… But. It is.” Kurt sounds desperate. He _feels_ desperate. After all, he wants someone to understand. Anyone. Even Blaine.

Blaine groans again and Kurt winds his arms around himself, turning his face away.

“Don’t judge me, Blaine. Please. Don’t judge me.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Blaine!” Kurt nearly careens into a nurse as he runs into the room, and is quickly scolded for ‘running in a hospital and, really, young man.’ He apologizes but pays the nurse no mind as he makes his way to Blaine’s bedside, the disgruntled nurse making her way down the hallway.

“I did it! Well, my dad did it. Him and Mrs. Hudson are going on a date this Saturday.” Kurt’s excitement beams through on his face and he quickly folds into his chair, which, strangely, hadn’t been moved from his previous visit.

“I swear, I’ve been bugging my dad every night at dinner about her, and I went by to see him just before coming here—he works in a garage, fixes cars, you know, and I bring him dinner when he plans on working late—and he told me he _did_ it.” A laugh erupts out of Kurt’s throat and he lets it for once, filling the room with a noise that must be rather foreign to it. He would have found laughter in silence eerie in the past, but now it’s welcome. Warmth where Blaine deserves warmth and Kurt wonders if he can hear it, feel it, the happiness radiating off of him.

“My plan is officially underway.” Kurt claps his hands at that, the sound slicing through the room. He realizes then that the hospital is quieter than he’s used to. He knows he’s there later than usual; with Glee club, an extra long Cheerios practice, and then stopping by to visit his dad, he’s surprised he managed to get to the hospital at all.

The nurse at the station had clicked her tongue when he’d signed in, reminding him when visiting hours ended, and he’d simply nodded and rushed off.

“I’m sorry I’m here late, by the way. Coach Sylvester is still whipping Mercedes and me into shape—I would say not literally, but, sometimes, it feels like she is. And I just could not come here in my Cheerios uniform _again_ —”

“Kurt.” Turning at the sound of his name, Kurt instantly puts on his best smile as Mrs. Hudson walks into the room. She’s holding a clipboard and instantly goes to check on some of the machinery, and Kurt takes in a few of the minor details; her hair has a bit of bounce to it and her scrubs ( _and why do they have to do such horrible things for the body, really_ ) still look freshly laundered. He deduces, quite skillfully, that’s he catching her right at the first leg of her shift and has to stop himself from grinning maniacally in victory. What had moments ago been an inconvenience was suddenly an amazing gift.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he greets back cordially, inclining his head slightly.

She laughs softly, shaking her head and flipping through a few of the pages on her clipboard to make notes.

“Really, you can call me Carole. Mrs. Hudson seems so… Formal.” She looks over at him and smiles and Kurt can feel himself relax a little. True, in the grand scheme of things Carole Hudson is simply a pawn, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t likable by any means.

“Carole, then. How are you doing this evening?” Kurt crosses his legs primly and hopes Blaine doesn’t mind the small disruption to their conversation. _Of course he doesn’t_ , he thinks, _he’s in a_ ** _coma_** _. Stop being silly._

“I’m… Good, thank you.”

Kurt is watching her just closely enough that he sees the small smile that tugs at her lips and the faint blush on her cheeks. _Good_. She’s looking forward to the date with his dad if that’s any indication. Which it _is_.

“Here again, I see. And you were here yesterday.” She’s nothing but curious as she turns to look at Kurt, suddenly across from him with only Blaine and his bed separating them. “A little later today, though,” she points out, leaning down over Blaine and checking him over.

“Well, yes. I’m usually here earlier in the afternoon, but I had Glee and Cheerios practice and I decided to bring my dad dinner afterwards.” Kurt keeps his face as nonchalant as possible, as if he’s a _perfect_ son all the time and today is no different.

Carole looks up at him, slight surprise melting into a smile.

“You bring your dad dinner? That’s so thoughtful of you.”

 _Thoughtful_. That’s what Kurt is. He brings his single father dinner when he works late nights and then keeps coma patients company. _She’ll think I’m a saint_.

“Well, I’ve been taking care of him for quite some time now. Have to make sure he’s eating right and all that,” Kurt says flippantly, like it’s nothing. Maybe because it _is_ nothing. It’s been just him and his dad for so many years now that it’s their _normal_ and he doesn’t even think twice about it. Carole or no Carole, ridiculously genius plan or none at all, he still would have brought his dad dinner tonight. Because he _is_ a good son. He doesn’t have to act it.

Carole smiles at him very simply, the scratch of her pen the only noise in the room (aside from the constant whir of the machines presumably keeping Blaine alive, that is).

“He told me, you know.”

She glances up at him curiously, tucking the pen into the pocket of her scrubs.

“About your date.” Kurt grins a bit knowingly at her and she’s suddenly fiddling with her clipboard like an embarrassed schoolgirl.

“Oh, well, yes, I—Yes.”

Kurt can’t recall ever seeing a grown woman get so flustered, but he must admit it’s rather endearing.

“If you want, I can swing by here on Saturday and give you some helpful tips on what to wear. I have quite an eye for hair and make-up, as well, if you’re interested.” After all, if his dad is going to _date_ , he might as well date someone up to Kurt’s standards. Carole is lovely, she just doesn’t seem to know how to emphasize that much.

Carole is looking at him in surprise, and for a moment she seems reluctant.

“I’m not trying to overstep, Mrs. Hu—Carole. Really. I just want to help.” _And I really love projects_. How soon is too soon to propose a makeover? Kurt supposes he should wait until after the second or third date to invite her shopping.

“Well, I suppose it couldn’t _hurt_. God knows Finn doesn’t know the difference between me going on a date and me going to the supermarket.” She laughs and Kurt grins, even if it isn’t the best thing to hear. Sure, Finn is oblivious in a way that’s almost alarming and his choice in clothing almost causes Kurt emotional trauma. But they’re all things that can be addressed and changed. Kurt is sure of it (sort of).

“I’ll be sure to make time in my Saturday schedule then. I’ll be visiting Blaine again, so it won’t be any trouble for me.”

Carole looks at him, really looks at him, and it almost makes Kurt feel uncomfortable. Like maybe she’ll suddenly see right through him and his plan and _oh god is he using Blaine?_ But the look softens.

“I’m glad Blaine has you, Kurt.” The sentiment comes from nowhere and blindsides him. He sits a little straighter, looking at her with a sudden rapt attention. “He hasn’t gotten many visitors, and. It helps, in my personal and professional opinion, to have someone even if you’re not fully aware of it.” She smiles at him again and Kurt has to look down at his hands. He isn’t sure if it’s guilt he’s feeling, but he’s suddenly overcome with emotion. His throat feels thick and he swallows to fill the silence.

“Do you want to help me turn him?”

Kurt’s attention snaps back to Carole quickly, his eyes wide.

“Do I—What?” He asks, blinking as if he doesn’t understand what she just asked.

“I technically shouldn’t ask, but… You seem like a gentle person, Kurt, and you obviously care about Blaine.” That tugs at Kurt again in the uncomfortable, almost-guilty way.

He looks at Blaine, really looks at him for the first time since he came in that evening, eyes searching. His bruises are almost gone now, something Kurt hadn’t noticed until right at this moment. He’d been talking to Blaine and telling him so much, but he never really looked at him and never really wondered. Blaine is a person, after all, just like Kurt is, and Kurt feels this strange desire to _know_ him all of a sudden.

“Besides,” Carole continues, drawing Kurt’s attention back to her. She’s wearing a small, knowing smile that makes Kurt want to blush for some reason—he doesn’t, though. “It’s a lot easier to turn him with two people. Safer for him, too. What do you say?”

 _No_. “Okay.”

He stands up, suddenly feeling awkward in ways that he really hasn’t lately. Carole beckons him over to her side of the bed and he steps carefully, leaving his bag in its normal place beside his chair. He stands unsurely for a few moments when Carole reaches over and gently pats his hand.

“We’re just going to turn him from his back to his side, okay? So he’s facing towards where you were sitting.” He nods dumbly and she shuffles around him so that he’s up near Blaine’s head and shoulders. “Now, don’t ever do this on your own, alright?”

Kurt vaguely wonders how much trouble Carole could get in for even letting him help her do it.

“Turn his head first.”

Kurt’s hands hesitate for a few moments. The only part of Blaine he’s ever touched is his _hand_ because every other part of him had felt strangely taboo. He moves slowly, glancing every few moments at Carole for any signs of frustration or annoyance. But she is nothing but encouraging smiles and patience which settles Kurt’s newfound nerves.

Blaine’s skin is strangely warm. Kurt isn’t sure why it’s such a weird sensation to his fingertips. One hand reaches behind Blaine’s neck, cradling his head carefully. There are signs of hair there, soft against the lengths of his fingers, and Kurt’s hand twitches at his desire to twist into it. His other hand, at Carole’s instruction, gently takes hold of Blaine’s chin and jaw. He’s as scratchy as his faint scruff denotes and Kurt can’t stop the way his thumb goes against it for a moment.

Suddenly aware of the fact that Carole is in fact _watching him right now_ , he turns Blaine’s head very carefully. He can feel air brushing against his fingers and it’s so _different_. Different than seeing Blaine’s chest move or hearing him groan. It’s a reminder that Blaine is alive, a reminder that tickles his fingers and sends a weird trill up from the base of his spine.

Blaine’s head rests into the pillow easily enough, and when he looks back at Carole, she’s smiling.

“Good job.” Her voice is gentle and he can’t help but smile back, looking at Blaine and realizing he’s still very much touching him. Kurt retracts his hands, fiddling with the edge of the hospital bedding, “Now for his body.”

Right. Because turning his head seemed to take an _hour_ , now they have to turn his _body_ , too. Blaine is covered in bandages and Kurt wonders, suddenly, how he’s supposed to do this without somehow hurting Blaine. But Carole is there, grabbing his wrists and guiding his hands into the correct placement.

Even through Blaine’s shirt, Kurt can feel _heat_ again and then more than that. He can feel bones and _muscles, wow, back muscles are_ ** _fantastic_** and he finds himself feeling warmer all of a sudden. Carole guides him through the movement but Kurt can’t seem to focus on more than the shift of Blaine’s spine beneath his palm or the slight give of his skin when Kurt’s fingers press against it.

It’s over, but he’s still standing there, one hand pressed lightly against the base of Blaine’s neck and the other curved slightly over the dip of his waist. Carole is still watching, but suddenly Kurt isn’t breathing as easy as he was five minutes ago and he really needs to concentrate on that.

“Thank you. You did wonderfully.”

Kurt just nods dumbly, still remembering _in_ and _out_ and the way he seems to be able to feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

Carole says something he doesn’t quite hear, mentioning how visiting hours are ending soon, and then she leaves with a small smile and closes the door behind her. The click seems to snap Kurt back to himself and his hands return quickly to his person, arms tangling together as he stares down at the expanse of Blaine’s back and shoulders. The ones he was just touching. His eyes drift over towards his neck again and then along the line of his torso and waist. Even with the blankets covering half of him, there’s definition now, and Kurt’s eyes are drawn to the curve of his—

Kurt’s blushing instantly, looking away and covering half of his face with his hand and _what has gotten into him?_ He almost mumbles an apology before he realizes that Blaine has no idea he was being _objectified_. He breathes, once, twice, three times, and collects himself before heading back to his chair and sitting down.

This is new. Like the breath against his finger, this is another different. Blaine’s face is closer to him now, almost like he’s staring at him. Except Blaine’s eyes are closed and that kind of negates the idea of staring. Still, Kurt can't stop _himself_ from looking. Because it’s hard not to notice, with Blaine’s face inches away and free of bruises, how attractive he is.

There’s something weird going on with Kurt’s heart right at that moment, something he isn’t exactly familiar with. It’s painful but it’s not at the same time, and Kurt’s hand flies to his chest as if it will somehow help with the sensation. It doesn’t. Kurt doesn’t know if he’s ever been _this_ silent during one of his visits with Blaine, but he knows he can’t talk. He couldn’t even if he had something to say.

His eyes are drinking in Blaine’s face like he’s never seen it before: the slope and width of his nose, the length of his eyelashes ( _holy—his eyelashes!)_ , the curve and fullness of his lips. Kurt’s tongue wets his own lips because his erratic breathing seems to be drying them out.

It’s almost as if his hand is moving of it’s own accord when his finger is tracing the roundness of Blaine’s cheek and then skitters to go down the length of his nose before outlining the shape of his lips.

“You know.” Kurt’s voice sounds deeper even to him and he resists the urge to clear his throat and return it to normal. “I always thought it was kind of… Demeaning to call a man beautiful, but…” He licks his own lips again, his fingers curving to cup Blaine’s cheek. “But I think I’m starting to understand why people do it.”


	6. Chapter 6

It’s the first time that Kurt has visited Blaine on a weekend. Saturdays hadn’t originally been a part of the plan, but Kurt could hardly turn down the opportunity to assist Carole before the big date night. Even _he_ was feeling anxious for it.

The nurse sitting at the station recognizes him and smiles, calls him a nice boy and asks how he’s doing. It’s strange for Kurt, who had never imagined in-hospital relations that expanded past the scope of Blaine and Carole. But he just smiles, answers politely, and adjusts his bag before heading on his way.

One thing about weekends is that the visiting hours are longer than when he normally comes in. Longer and also much busier. There are people bustling around him, talking in excited, raised voices and quiet, rushed whispers. It’s new for Kurt, who is used to the steady sound of machines and the brisk walk of doctors and nurses. It’s like stepping from a ghost town to a circus (and he reminds himself to never refer to a hospital as either ever again).

Blaine’s room is as empty as ever when Kurt arrives, and Kurt is almost thankful for the silence.

“Hello,” he says cheerily, walking over to Blaine’s bed but not sitting just yet. He rests his bag on the mattress and begins shuffling through it, his eyes shifting to Blaine every so often. “I have homework to do, but it’s actually easier for me to concentrate here than at home. Also.” Kurt pauses for a moment, fingers twitching in his bag before he looks up at Blaine and takes a breath.

“I brought you something.”

Reaching carefully into his bag, he extracts a fully bloomed yellow rose, cupping it gently in his hand.

“I tried to bring you flowers a few days ago, but there’s this weird policy against making hospital patients happy or something,” Kurt mutters bitterly. “Actually, it had something to do with allergens. I guess that would be a horrible way to find out you’re allergic to pollen, huh?”

Kurt sets the flower carefully down on the bed.

“It’s not _real_. I, um. Made it, actually. Out of coffee filters. It’s amazing the things you can learn how to do on the internet at one in the morning.” _Thank god for Martha Stewart_. Kurt reaches for Blaine’s hand, gently cupping his wrist and lifting so that he could run Blaine’s immobile fingers along the petals.

“So, unless you’re allergic to coffee filters, they can’t really get mad at me.”

Kurt produces a small vase—plastic, unfortunately, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He wouldn’t tell Blaine that he had spent his entire Friday thinking of loopholes in that whole ‘no flower’ policy. He’d wanted to bring Blaine something for his room, something that made it more than a bland hospital room. It hadn’t even occurred to him to go out and buy fake, fabric flowers to replace the real ones. He’d wanted it to be something from him, something special.

He sets down the vase on the bed’s side table, still frowning that he couldn’t get something fabulous and made of glass or crystal. But if this vase falls over, it won’t break or spill water. Another perk of fake flowers.

“It’s yellow.” He turns Blaine’s hand on the bed and opens it, setting the bloom of the flower in his palm before sitting down. “I thought it would brighten up the room.” He doesn’t tell Blaine that he looked up various rose colors and their meanings before he chose what color to paint it. “It’s not like a scary yellow, though. It’s soft, and buttery. Honestly, if you never touched it or smelled it, you wouldn’t know it wasn’t a real rose.”

All in all, Kurt is rather proud of himself at what he’d created. He gingerly plucked the rose from Blaine’s hand and set it in its vase. He’s critical of his own work, of course, and frowns at it for a few moments.

“It’s not perfect, but I’ll get better. Soon, maybe, this room won’t be so gloomy anymore.” He perks slightly, looking away form the rose and back to Blaine.

“I really should get started on my homework, _but_ speaking of gloomy rooms.” Kurt scoots to the edge of his chair as he prepares to engage in conversation, crossing his legs and leaning over his knees.

“Have I mentioned that I live in a basement? I know, it sounds rather depressing, but it’s not. Not really. It’s white right now, but it’s beginning to become rather tiresome and so _very_ out of date. I mean, of course, white is classic, but sometimes you just need a change.” Kurt stares at Blaine for a few moments as he reshuffles his thoughts, smiling. After all, Blaine is an attentive listener when he has no other choice.

He wonders if it would be like talking to Mercedes, who starts the conversation quite invested but somewhere along the way gets this far off look in her eyes. Or maybe like when Kurt talks to his father, who sets his mouth and furrows his eyebrows while trying to keep up and understand but mostly just nodding.

“I bet you have quite the eye for interior design. I’ll forgive your current choices, for now, but really, Blaine, I expected better from you,” he chides gently, still smiling. There’s a twitch in Blaine’s shoulders but Kurt ignores it. Carole has taught him enough to know that coming out of a coma is hardly the romanticized process movies portray.

“I think I’d like to make it warmer, less stark. I’m sure you can relate. If they’d let me change the curtains, it would really make this whole place much more habitable.” As if the color of curtains would affect Blaine in any capacity. “But I was leaning towards brown. Not a muddy one, although I can’t knock the color completely, but maybe something with gold or red undertones? Just to make my room homier.” He chews his lip for a moment, head tilted slightly as he looks at Blaine.

“Maybe I should make myself some flowers.” Kurt smiles softly, leaning back in his chair. “Or maybe you could return the favor when you wake up.”

A sound that normally doesn’t fill Blaine’s hospital room hits his ears—a click of heels. Confused, he turns to look over his shoulder, ready to meet a nurse coming to check on Blaine.

But the woman standing right inside the doorway is most certainly not a nurse.

The way she’s dressed, although on the casual side, screams nothing but _designer_ to Kurt’s well-trained eyes. It’s a simple statement, an a-line skirt and blouse with a cardigan that he has the urge to reach out and touch. It reminds him vaguely or a classier Miss Pillsbury, one who knows how to match colors, prints, and pieces without becoming an insult to fashion sense.

She’s short despite her blue Jimmy Choo’s, her hair dark, thick, and long. She has an exotic look to her, but Kurt can’t quite place why, and too late, he realizes he’s been staring.

“Who are you?” Her voice is deeper than he expected, but it’s strong and intimidating. He blinks at her for a few moments, eyes distracted by the way her perfectly manicured hands clutch at the bag strap over her shoulder.

The bag is interesting. It isn’t the sort of thing Kurt would expect a woman such as this to carry. It’s been well used, or so Kurt guesses by the condition it’s in. It’s a lovely black canvas bag with leather accents, and Kurt would be lying if he said it wasn’t something he would love to own.

“I’m Kurt. Kurt Hummel, I’m a hospital volunteer,” he explains swiftly. His observations couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, but it feels like hours of silence have passed between them. Her eyes are appraising him, and with a start, Kurt realizes she’s moved closer. He would have thought someone like her would have dark eyes, but they are a striking honey color that would be warm if they didn’t look so… Scared. And sad.

“I’ve been… Visiting Blaine. For the past two weeks,” he explains after another stilted silence. Her eyes are still flicking over him nervously, and then to Blaine, and suddenly the whole situation registers in Kurt’s head. This woman is here to visit Blaine.

“Two weeks,” she says in a rush of air, like the amount of time causes her actual pain. Again, Kurt realizes that it probably is. Whoever Blaine is to her—son, brother, nephew, grandson—he has been in a coma for at least two weeks now. But at the same time that a strange grief wraps up his throat, there’s a flicker of anger deep in his stomach. _Where has she been the whole time?_

“I… Appreciate you attempting to keep my son company.” So this is Blaine’s mother. Kurt looks at the bag again and it occurs to him that it’s probably _Blaine’s_. He stares at it, as if it has the potential to unlock all the secrets that Blaine can’t tell Kurt himself. “But that’s all it is. An attempt.”

Kurt’s attention snaps back to the conversation.

“He’s in a coma,” she chokes out, and Kurt can see her straining to keep herself under control. “It doesn’t matter what you _say_ or _do_. He’s—he’s not waking up.” Kurt can hear the complete and utter devastation in her voice, her complete lack of faith that she will ever see Blaine open his eyes again.

It hits Kurt like a wave, the weight of it feeling like it could crush it. If he hadn’t been sitting, he was sure he would have physically stumbled.

“Mrs.—” Kurt stops, drawing back wide-eyed. He has no idea what Blaine’s last name is.

“Please don’t visit my son anymore,” she says quietly, looking at him as if Kurt’s the reason Blaine is here. She looks at him as if she personally blames Kurt for whatever put him in a coma, for him going into a coma. He grabs his bag hurriedly, the room suddenly too small and the presence of Blaine’s mother in the room being _too much, it’s too much, I have to get out of here_.

He hurries past her, close enough to hear her whisper a broken, “it’s hopeless,” before he’s at the door. He stops then, watching as she walks to Blaine’s bedside. But his eyes don’t stay on her for long.

Kurt is looking at Blaine, long and hard, suddenly overcome. He could never see Blaine again. This could be _it_. The pain of the finality hits him strangely, making him feel unbalanced. He stares, memorizing what he can see of Blaine’s profile.

“Blaine.” His mother is speaking, reaching out and stroking his face in a familiar way. Kurt knows he should leave. But he doesn’t. “Sweetheart? It’s mama.” Her voice breaks. “I brought you a few of your things from home. The… I brought books. I know that’s—But I thought maybe I could read them to you. Like when you were little.” She’s crying now, Kurt can hear it in her voice. Her body nearly collapses on top of Blaine’s, and this time Kurt turns away.

“My little boy. My baby boy. Blaine, please, please wake up.”

Kurt closes his eyes and mouths “thank you” before he walks quickly away from the room, where a mother is mourning her son far too early.

It’s not until he’s sitting in his car, trying to put the key in the ignition with shaking hands, that Kurt realizes he’s been crying. He wipes hastily at his eyes, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, but wondering if he’s crying for the mother who might lose her son or for the loss of a boy who has become his closest friend without Kurt even realizing it.


	7. Chapter 7

“Ten pounds. _Ten pounds_. Does she really expect me to do that?”

Kurt walks beside Mercedes, half paying attention as he touches his hip insecurely. Pear hips? What does that even _mean?_ He knows he still has some baby fat, but… He’s lost so much already, even just compared to the beginning of the year.

“Is that even physically possible without stopping eating altogether?”

He’s too soft looking. That must be it. Maybe Coach Sylvester wants to put _him_ in a Cheerios skirt as well. No, no, he can do this, he can lose a few pounds. He eats healthy already, he just needs to… Eat less, maybe. He can’t get kicked off the Cheerios. That’s all he has now. Cheerios and Glee and…

“Kurt?”

“Huh?” They’re at his locker and he looks at Mercedes, who had already looked weighed down at her newly imposed diet but is now looking at him with concern, too.

“You okay? You’ve been acting out of it all morning. What’s up?” Mercedes means well, Kurt knows she does. She’s the closest thing he has to a best friend ( _now_ , he adds subconsciously) but he just forces a smile at her.

“I’m fine, it’s just. Long weekend, Monday, that sort of thing.” He shrugs it off, or so he hopes, turning to his locker and beginning to exchange the books in his bag. Kurt can still feel Mercedes’ eyes on him, unsure. “Actually,” he begins again before she can pry further. He doesn’t want to talk about Saturday, about the hospital, about Blaine. Not to Mercedes. He has this feeling deep in his gut that she wouldn’t understand, and if his best friend doesn’t get it… Well, it’s better if he keeps it to himself.

“I spent all of yesterday coming up with design ideas for my room. Tell you about them on the way to class?” This time his smile is brighter, more convincing. If there’s one thing to pull him out of his funk, it’s interior decorating.

And then there’s Finn, of course. Hadn’t he been the whole reason for this in the first place? Kurt had accomplished the first crucial part in his plan, anyways. His dad and Mrs. Hud—Carole, they were dating now. That was the important part. Not to mention he could still volunteer at the hospital and befriend Carole. He didn’t _have_ to visit Blaine. There were plenty of people to visit. A whole hospital full of people just waiting to be visited.

It didn’t have to be Blaine.

* * *

It takes Kurt twice as long to get to the hospital as usual.

Not because of Glee practice, not because of Cheerios practice, not because he randomly decided to go to the library for some reason. But because he keeps telling himself _not_ _to go_ to the hospital today.

It’s Monday. He doesn’t need to go. He can easily go back to his twice a week routine, just like he’d started with, and things would be fine. Things would be normal again. He’d do his homework at a desk instead of at the bedside of a comatose teenager, he’d have conversations with people who answered back.

But something kept making him turn back around until he was shutting off the ignition in the hospital parking structure.

This was _insane_. He’d only been visiting Blaine daily for a week. It really shouldn’t have been this big of a deal to _stop_. That’s what his mom had asked him to do, and he wasn’t about to go against Blaine’s family. _He seems like a family person_. He can’t help but remember Blaine’s mother’s absence though in all the time Kurt has spent there, but, at the same time, the sound of her sobbing still stung his ears as if he was hearing it right at that moment. 

Why was he _here?_

He’d never felt so lost after signing in, fidgeting as he stared down the hall he normally took. It wouldn’t hurt to peak in on Blaine, would it? After all, what if he woke up yesterday or something? Kurt at least had the right to know that he was alright, didn’t he? It didn’t hurt to walk past the door and casually glance inside, did it?

_You are a crazy person._

“Kurt!”

Spinning on his heel, Kurt comes face to face with none other than Carole. His face splits into another forced smile and he fights the urge to sigh. _At least with Blaine I never had to fake having a good day_. With Blaine, it didn’t matter if his days were bad.

“Carole,” he greets just as enthusiastically. “You look lovely today.” Surprisingly, it’s not a complete lie. Despite the scrubs, she looks a bit more put together, and her hair is actually done nicely. Dating his father is doing good things for her.

She touches her hair, basking in the compliment for a moment. “Well, yes, I—did your dad not tell you?” She looks awkward for a moment, and he keeps smiling even if his teeth are clenched.

“Tell me what?” _Abort abort abort_.

“Well, we… He’s taking me out again. Tonight, actually, so.” Kurt’s shoulders nearly slump in relief, but he’s better than that. _Please_.

“That’s fantastic, Carole.” And Kurt doesn’t have to try so hard to smile this time. Carole does sigh with relief, as if Kurt’s opinion of her is absolutely pivotal. Then again, maybe it is. _Wow. She must be pretty interested if she’s invested in my opinion already_. “Saturday night must have gone well then?” He hedges, and she blushes, fumbling with the hem of her shirt.

“Well, I think so, he… Your dad didn’t say anything?”

 _This is precious_. Kurt has never seen a woman Carole’s age blush so much or act so bashful, and for once it doesn’t matter that she’s a pawn in the plan. She looks so… Happy. _I did that_.

“Oh, he didn’t have to. He came home Saturday night practically with hearts in his eyes. I haven’t seen him smile like that in a long time.” _And my dad is happy_. Carole smiles softly at him in a maternal way that Kurt is unused to, and it churns deep in his stomach. “Anyways, I—”

“That’s right, you’re here to see Blaine, aren’t you?” Carole looks at him knowingly and Kurt feels the need to blush. _Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t you dare blush_.

“Actually, I was just stopping by to see you. Actually, I was wondering if you were working this weekend?” He needs to steer the conversation away from Blaine, and he needs to do it _now_.

“This…? No. I’m off on Friday, and—”

“Perfect.” Kurt reaches forward and takes her hand, and she looks up at him in surprise. “My dad really likes you, Carole, and I’d love it if we got to know each other better.” He gives the back of her hand a nice tap for emphasis and she looks taken aback and flattered. “I have some excellent ideas for your hair, actually—if you wouldn’t mind?”

He’ll still tell her, he knows, but it’s polite to at least pretend he cares about her opinion.

“That… Sounds really nice, actually. Listen, I have to get back to work, but you’ll be here tomorrow, right?” Kurt opens his mouth to say _no, not tomorrow, I can’t come back_. “We’ll discuss it then, okay?” She looks apologetic, glancing over his shoulder hurriedly before nodding a goodbye to him and hurrying away. Kurt would almost think it was rude if he wasn’t still floored by the fact that he has to come back tomorrow.

 _Just for that. You’ll arrange things with Carole and leave. People go to the hospital without visiting people all the time._ Yeah. Injured people. But he was visiting Carole; that was justification enough. But really, they should have exchanged cell phone numbers or something. Wow, and wouldn’t texting his dad’s girlfriend be weird?

He begins to follow the path Carole had just taken, the path that he took nearly every day last week as he went to visit Blaine. It had never taken this long, and he wonders if he’s dawdling on purpose, looking at each door he passes and wondering about the people beyond them. _A hospital full of people_. Kurt wonders how he walked through these halls for a week without feeling the slightest bit depressed.

But he feels it now, like a stone stuck from his throat down to his gut.

Blaine’s door is closed. That’s the first thing he notices when he gets there. Is someone in there? Has he woken up and now he’s closed off to people who aren’t family? _I should have asked Carole. I should have just asked her_. His hands grip at the strap of his bag and he stands there, suddenly blank on what he should do.

Kurt looks at the plaque on the wall beside the door. ‘Anderson’ is scrawled beneath the room number and he wonders how he’d never seen it before. He stares at the door again. _Blaine Anderson_. So that’s his full name then.

Reaching into his bag, he slowly takes out another flower—a paper daisy. Not quite as real looking as the rose, but... Still pretty. Kurt feels proud of it. Kurt wonders why he spent the rest of his Saturday perfecting it. He doesn’t know why he brought it with him at all.

Resigned, he tucks it into the empty clipboard holder on the outside of the door and walks away. He asks himself, again, why he even came at all.

* * *

It’s not until he’s home (“earlier than usual,” his dad comments, but then asks Kurt for _clothes_ advice and Kurt really should _thank_ Carole for _existing_ after that), settling down at his desk and flicking on his computer that an idea strikes him.

He knows Blaine’s name now. Sort of. Is Blaine Anderson a common name? Kurt’s never met _anyone_ named Blaine before. Besides, he knows that this Blaine Anderson is from Ohio and at least close to Lima, right?

His fingers are typing before he can even think through it completely.

 **Blaine Anderson** stares at him from the search bar while his finger hovers over the enter key. Kurt wonders for a minute what he’ll find. A Facebook page? MySpace even? A YouTube channel? Maybe a newspaper article? _I could find out what happened_. His finger twitches.

 _I could find out who you are, Blaine Anderson_.

He closes his eyes.

 _I could finally know you_.

He shuts his laptop more forcefully then he should, almost pushing it away as if it contains something evil.

_Who are you, Kurt Hummel? And why do you care who Blaine Anderson is?_


	8. Chapter 8

Kurt isn’t sure if a week has ever dragged on this long before.

It’s Wednesday and already he’s hoping for the weekend, and even that doesn’t seem like it will be a welcome relief. He feels more irritable than usual, probably because he just feels _hungry_ all the time. But it will be worth it, Kurt keeps telling himself, when weigh-in comes.

True to Carole’s request, he’d gone to the hospital the previous afternoon. Arranging their mall date hadn’t taken more than ten minutes, and Kurt was more than prepared for anything she could throw at him. The sudden appearance of an essay isn’t strange for a high school student, after all, and Carole certainly respects Kurt’s responsibility to his school work.

But then, how sad is that? That he has to make _excuses_ to Carole about why he’s not visiting Blaine?

Avoiding someone in a _coma_ should not be this difficult.

He spends his entire day feeling like he’s carrying something extremely heavy on his back and, if he hadn’t perfected his posture, he’s sure it would result in a visible hunch. His attention drifts in his classes and he wanders aimlessly in the hallways by himself, everything rushing past him while he seems to be going in slow motion.

Some part of Kurt registers that if he wasn’t clad in his Cheerios uniform, he’d be such an easy target.

In fact, it’s a surprise that he doesn’t shriek when Finn suddenly appears in front of him and they almost collide.

“Are you ignoring me or something?” Finn looks at him skeptically, as if he can’t imagine Kurt ever doing such a thing.

“Am I what?” Even Kurt’s voice is heavier, tired, and he forgets that he’s supposed to be _excited_ because _Finn_ is _talking to him_.

“Dude, I’ve been calling your name for like two minutes.” Finn glances around surreptitiously, his voice dropping. “People were starting to _stare_.” Kurt fights hard not to wince.

“Just a lot on my mind, Finn Hudson.” Kurt adjusts his bag, his voice airy and nonchalant. “Can I help you with something?”

Finn’s attention turns back to him and away from scanning the hallways for… Well, slushies, is what Kurt would guess. His uniform doesn’t protect Finn and _isn’t that something?_

“What? Oh, right.” Finn stands a little taller, as if remembering whatever steam had driven him to talking to Kurt in the first place. “Are our parents _dating?_ ”

For a few moments, Kurt just blinks at him, maybe because if his dad had all of a sudden started going out after work he would have been suspicious. He wonders, vaguely, what suddenly made Finn perceptive.

“Yes.” His answer is short, and Finn just stands there looking at him, waiting for more. When Kurt doesn’t elaborate, he pushes.

“For, like, how long?”

Kurt’s face scrunches in thought, as if he has to try desperately to remember. “They’ve only gone on two dates? They met at Parent Teacher night last week. Instant chemistry,” Kurt assures him. “I would know. I was there. I always attend them with my father to act as translator.”

Finn gapes at him.

“In fact, I met your mother at the hospital where she works. I… I volunteer there.” He harshly swallows down the _used to_ that sits, unused, on the back of his tongue. When Finn continues to stare at him blankly, he wonders if Carole really never tells him _anything_ or if Finn is just really good at tuning his mother out.

“But she… She came home past _midnight_ the other night. Like. I don’t know. A teenage girl. She’s been acting all weird and… Giggly and…” Finn’s confusion is so blatantly on his face in a way Kurt can’t help but find adorable.

“Happy?” Kurt guesses, which only furthers Finn’s uncertainty.

“I guess,” he mumbles, folding his arms as if the admittance makes him particularly uncomfortable.

“My dad does, too.” But Kurt smiles, softly, thinking of his father. “I can only see more dates in their future. And who knows? Maybe more.” There’s more traffic around them now, and suddenly Kurt remembers that there are places to be and things to do.

“If you’ll excuse me, Coach Sylvester doesn’t appreciate tardiness at practice.” Kurt smiles one more time at Finn before sweeping past him and making his way towards the auditorium. He finds himself actually praying for a longer practice, for something distracting, so that any compulsion he feels of going to the hospital afterwards is quickly overshadowed by his need to be home. 

By the time he’s slipping into his stretches, he’s already forgotten his entire conversation with Finn.

* * *

There’s a competition coming up and it means that Coach Sylvester is being particularly hard on the Cheerios. They already have practice daily, but now she has them scheduled longer and is working them harder. Kurt is sure by the time he pulls into the driveway that his feet are _bleeding_ , but he hasn’t had the energy to check yet.

In one respect, he’s grateful. It’s a distraction that will leave him too exhausted to think of anything else, much less dwell on things. In fact, the rigorous practices would almost be welcome if he was up to par with the rest of the Cheerios. But his sluggish movement hadn’t left him and things continued to feel like they were going in slow motion. Coach Sylvester had berated him and threatened him so many times that they’d all started to blur together, and had barked that if he didn’t have his act cleaned up soon she’d find “someone else that can pierce eardrums with that screeching you call singing.”

Maybe if he turned in early, he’d feel better tomorrow.

It wasn’t until he was climbing out of his car and dragging himself towards the house that he even noticed the strange car parked in front of the mailbox. He stared at it for a few moments, eyebrows lifted vaguely in curiosity, before he continued to the door.

“Dad?” He calls as he enters the front door, instantly reaching down to remove his regulation uniform shoes. For a moment, Kurt remembers the boots lined up in his closet wistfully, the smoothness of his favorite jeans, and he hates being on the Cheerios just a little bit.

It’s when he hears voices, as in _more than one_ , that he perks up and weaves through the house and towards the kitchen. He recognizes his father’s deep laugh, eyebrows furrowing in confusion because his father is almost never in the kitchen—

“Carole.” She’s standing over by the counter, wearing one of the aprons he’d made, and her cheeks are red as if she’s just been laughing. His dad is bent low over the counter, shoulders heaving slightly as he quietly chuckles and… _Peels garlic?_

“Oh Kurt.” She straightens a bit, as if she hadn’t been caught just giggling with his father and smiles at him. His dad turns too, and Kurt can’t believe the smile lighting up his father’s face.

“Hey buddy. I didn’t hear you get home.”

He’s not even wearing his _baseball cap_.

“I just came in a few minutes ago. I… Didn’t know Carole was coming over tonight.” His voice is nothing but surprise, although he shoots his father a look as if to say _why didn’t you tell me?_ Kurt came straight from practice and if he _looks_ as disgusting as he _feels_ … Well, he doesn’t even want to think about it.

“Don’t be too hard on him, Kurt.” She reaches over and squeezes his dad’s arm, causing Burt to turn and share a look with her while Kurt watches on. “I just sort of showed up with a bag of food and told him I was making dinner.”

_But you’ve only been on two dates._

“Where’s Finn?” He asks, because no matter how dopily adorable Finn might be, Kurt was never under the impression that he could do something like prepare his own dinner without the involvement of a phone and delivery service.

Carole’s face falls for a moment, but she picks it back up again, the curl to her lips a little more resigned this time.

“He’s at Noah’s tonight, and I decided I couldn’t let a good meal go uneaten.” There are things unsaid there, hanging in the air, but Kurt and his dad don’t say anything. He wonders if maybe Carole already talked to his dad, told him everything that happened before Kurt got home.

“Dare I ask what’s on the menu?” He sets his schoolbag down in one of the kitchen chairs, fingers moving to flutter together. He’s unused to having other people use the kitchen—his dad’s knowledge extends to the microwave and, recently, the coffee maker, so he isn’t familiar with the idea of sharing the space.

“Lasagna.”

Kurt blanches, walking over and wringing his hands a bit nervously as he peers at the counter. Ingredients are laid out there but nothing has been done quite yet.

“And a salad?” Carole shoots a glance at him, unsurely, and Kurt realizes somewhere how big of a step this is. She knows more about what’s going on with him than his own father, and yet here she is being nervous about getting his approval.

“I’ll make it.”

He swears he sees his dad let out a breath of relief, and he stops himself from saying anything about how he’s not _that_ bad. Instead he bumps his dad away from the cutting board and inspects Carole’s ingredients. “You know, I make an amazing raspberry vinaigrette.” He looks at Carole and she just gives him a nod, melting into a smile. 

“I look forward to trying it.”

* * *

Eventually Burt is kicked from the kitchen, when Kurt decides that he’s complained enough about him convincing Carole to substitute ground beef for ground turkey (she had insisted that they not get as extreme as eggplant _this time_ ) and regular grain noodles for whole wheat. It’s almost awkward at first, both of them standing side by side. It’s too early to start the salad, but Kurt can at least work on the dressing while Carole layers the main course. Sometimes he finds himself stopping to watch her, as if the idea that someone else in the universe can cook is suddenly new knowledge.

“I was doing my rounds at the hospital the other day,” she begins quietly, her voice a low hum that could easily be obscured by whatever his dad happens to be watching on TV. Kurt feels his shoulder stiffen slightly, but tilts his head silently in her direction to indicate that he’s listening. “I found these lovely paper flowers outside of Blaine’s door.”

This time, Kurt freezes completely and Carole’s eyes flick to him briefly before she resumes her work.

“I brought them into his room, put them in the little vase I’d seen in there the other day. I actually had to touch the rose, it looked so real.” Her voice is nonchalant, as if she’s telling Kurt about things that happen on a daily basis at the hospital. He briefly wonders if paper flowers have been _done_ before at Lima Memorial. “I had to wonder, though, why the maker of the flowers didn’t deliver them himself.”

Carole does stop now, turning her body and leaning against the counter and just looking at him, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, I wonder.” Kurt realizes that he’s stopped working and quickly starts chopping his herbs again. Carole continues to wait.

“Kurt.” He stops again, turning to look at her with as bright and innocent a smile as he can manage. But her expression is soft and inquisitive. “Why didn’t you bring Blaine those flowers?”

His mouth opens wordlessly, on the brink of denying it—but who else would have given them to Blaine? It tugs at Kurt’s heart that Carole immediately thought of him. Even after seeing Blaine’s mother there, Kurt is still the only one who visits Blaine.

“The door was closed,” he says simply, turning back to his work. His hands move quickly, as if the speed of his knife will somehow distance him from this conversation. “I didn’t want to intrude on anything.” When it’s clear that he’s not going to say any more, Carole turns back to the lasagna and they fall back into silence.

Only this silence isn’t the comfortable silence of two people working together. It’s charged now. Kurt’s mind is half on the recipe he’s supposed to have memorized— _did he almost put four cups of vinegar in there_ —and half on Blaine. Mostly on Blaine. It’s only been _four_ days, what is _wrong_ with him?

“How is he?” The words tumble out of his mouth in a rush of breath, quiet and suddenly heavy in the air. But Kurt’s shoulders and chest feel lighter, as if that one question had been dragging him down since Saturday.

“He’s healing up nicely. Almost all of the bruising has faded and they even removed some bandages the other day.” Kurt waits. “He’s still unresponsive.” Even Carole’s voice is slightly strained as she says it, and Kurt’s hand grips the counter unconsciously. He hasn’t woken up yet.

“Has…” Kurt swallows, staring at his prepped ingredients but not moving to do anything with them. “Has anyone else been to visit him?”

When Carole doesn’t answer, Kurt turns to look at her and sees her shaking her head with a sad smile on her face.

_I appreciate you attempting to keep my son company. But that’s all it is. An attempt._

Blaine’s been alone.

“She told me not to come anymore,” Kurt says quietly, and Carole turns to meet his gaze with questioning eyes. “On Saturday. I went to visit. I met his mother.” His fingers flex against the granite. “She told me not to come anymore.” The ache in his words surprises him. He doesn’t even understand why it’s there.

Carole’s stare is heavy on him suddenly and he has to turn away, distracting himself by feeding things into the food processor.

“That was respectful of you, Kurt.” Her voice is hushed, and Kurt just gives a jerky nod. It’s almost like a seal on the situation. The finality of a closing door. As if Kurt had expected Carole to have some solution to this strange new longing he was feeling. _Blaine listened the way no one else ever did_. Kurt almost laughs at himself.

_He’s in a coma. He has to listen_.

“Mrs. Anderson has had a tough time.” Carole’s voice is delicate, and when Kurt turns to look at her, she’s resumed her work. Kurt lets himself watch her fingers. “Blaine was in the ICU for some time before he was moved into that private room. You probably don’t know much about coma patients, Kurt, but they normally don’t get rooms like Blaine has.” Kurt doesn’t know _anything_ about coma patients, and his first meeting with Carole will always be proof of that.

“She stayed with him that whole time, but you know… The longer someone is in a coma, the less likely they are to wake up.” Kurt’s still watching, her nimble fingers layering a sheet noodle over meat and cheese and tomato. “The more days that passed, the less hopeful she looked. When they had Blaine moved, she stopped coming.” Carole’s voice catches, and Kurt realizes he’s looking at the side of a woman he hasn’t seen in eight years. Carole is a mother, and maybe when she sees Blaine lying in that hospital all alone she imagines her own son there.

“His dad?”

Carole shakes his head, and Kurt lets out a long breath that seems to hollow him out to his stomach.

“They gave up hope, I suppose. But they still have a little, they must, or else—” She stops herself, but Kurt knows how the sentence ends. He’s seen enough daytime television to know what’s supposed to happen when a coma patient isn’t waking up. “You don’t have to give up, Kurt.”

He turns away then, staring down at the counter and feeling a prick behind his eyes. Doesn’t he, though?

_Are you lonely?_

Blaine’s been alone, but maybe, just maybe, Kurt has been alone, too.

“In case you were curious.” Carole starts so suddenly, her voice abruptly lighter than it has been, that Kurt starts. “Unless a family files a complaint or request, they can’t really ban anyone from a room. A closed door isn’t a locked door.”

Kurt fights the overwhelming urge to suddenly hug Carole, but he does give her a hesitant smile. A real smile. He feels as if she can tell the difference.

Their silence is easy again, and Kurt feels like he’s suddenly lost one hundred pounds. Or shed a ridiculously heavy and ugly coat. He twists his shoulders slightly, as if adjusting to it almost, biting his lip minutely to keep from smiling.

It isn’t until they’ve loaded the lasagna into the oven and Kurt’s placed his vinaigrette in the refrigerator to cool that Carole even says something relating to the topic again.

“I can’t imagine what she must be going through.” It’s the tone of voice more than anything that keeps Kurt from asking who. He can tell. Carole twists a dishtowel in her hands as if she was drying them, but really Kurt thinks it’s to have something to do with them. “If something like that ever happened to Finn.” Her voice catches, and she shakes her head slightly.

“I can understand her being protective. It’s a mom thing.” Her smile is soft when she glances at Kurt, and it almost feels like she’s looking through him. “Suddenly everyone is dangerous. Everyone is the enemy.” Carole hums thoughtfully, threading the cloth back over the oven’s rung before walking across the kitchen.

“You coming?”

Kurt realizes he’s still standing there, the last sentence she said reeling in his head. He shakes his head, forcing a smile.

“I’m just going to start on a bit of homework before I start the salad.”

Carole watches him for a moment too long before nodding and silently slipping out to the living room. He hears his dad’s voice greet her, but it falls to a soft murmur of conversation soon enough.

He’s sitting. He’s not exactly sure when he started sitting, but he is, staring after Carole.

_Suddenly everyone is dangerous_.

Mrs. Anderson thought he was dangerous? He glanced down at himself, the word and his image of himself not clicking together. Kurt might have a sharp tongue, but he’s never been called or seen as dangerous before. Dangerous people don’t get thrown into dumpsters and shoved into lockers and slushied on a weekly basis.

_If something like that happened to Finn_.

Something like _what?_ A _coma?_ Or was it something else entirely? What could have happened that would make even someone like Kurt seem dangerous?

_What happened to you, Blaine Anderson?_


	9. Chapter 9

The next day, things are different.

Kurt isn’t sure if it’s the consistent thrum of _Blaine Blaine Blaine_ in the back of his mind or the fact that he ate lasagna the night before and a bagel that morning. Either way, what had been dragging and heavy the day before is suddenly flitting past him like light.

It takes a lot of willpower not to skip Cheerios that afternoon. But his energy has turned into restlessness and if there’s any way to combat that, it’s by practicing Coach Sylvester’s rigorous routines. Kurt’s even sure, when he steps into the auditorium that afternoon, that he’s already going to do much better than the day before. He practically bounces over to Mercedes, who looks up from where she’s seated on the stage to look at him.

“Someone’s feeling better.” Kurt stops, smiling down at her before slipping seamlessly into his stretches.

“What are you talking about?” He reigns himself in a little bit, even though he can still feel the energy vibrating right beneath his skin.

“You’ve been a zombie all week is what I’m talking about.” Mercedes has completely stopped her half-hearted stretching attempts, and Kurt briefly registers how tired _she_ looks.

“I… Guess Coach Sylvester’s criticism yesterday just whipped me into shape,” he says simply with a casual shrug. Mercedes doesn’t look very convinced, and Kurt isn’t insanely surprised; it was a pretty weak argument. “And I’m… Volunteering today, and I always enjoy that.”

The fact that he’d kept everything concerning Blaine practically a secret from Mercedes rears in the back of his mind, but he pushes it away. Kurt loves Mercedes; she’s his best friend, of course he does. There’s just something _about_ Blaine that makes it so hard for Kurt to talk about.

“You’re still volunteering?”

The shock evident in Mercedes’ voice causes Kurt to pause and look at her again.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?” There’s more bite to his question than he’d intended.

“I just, I don’t know. I thought with Cheerios you didn’t really need it anymore.”

_Cheerios doesn’t have Blaine, Mercedes._

“The more things I can put on my eventual college applications, the better. Besides, I _enjoy_ it.” He stresses, going back to his stretching. His positive, anxious, thrumming energy is quickly becoming aggravated.

“Are you still seeing that boy?”

The way she says it causes Kurt to still again, this time looking at her with a combination of disbelief and coldness.

“His name is Blaine.”

Mercedes reaches out as if to take his hand, like she wants him to sit and talk with her, but he draws it away sharply.

“Kurt.” There’s an edge of worry to her voice now. “You’ve been acting… Different, since you started this whole volunteer thing. Especially lately. And you know I think it’s good for you, but I just—It’s weird. It’s like spending your afternoons with a dead person.”

“Blaine is _not_ dead.” His voice is low and cutting, and Mercedes is staring at him now, her mouth beginning to form around words. “Blaine is—” _the only person I can talk to anymore. Blaine is the only person who doesn’t make me feel so alone_. “You know what? No. I don’t have to justify this to you.”

So he walks away, setting himself up for practice away from Mercedes and her “concern.”

* * *

Kurt leaves the locker room after a brief rinse in the shower, the fastest change in _history_ (he’s sure that if it had been timed, he would get some sort of recognition for it), and what would later be deemed as hardly passable styling of his hair. It’s half about getting to the hospital as quickly as he can—the longer practice times had slipped his mind, but the end of visiting hours certainly hadn’t andhe _really_ should have skipped practice—but it’s also about dodging Mercedes and her lingering questions. She’d watched him all through practice, looking for openings to talk to him and failing to find any. 

It’s on his way to the hospital that the nerves come back, the anxious-excited ones that have been driving him all day.

He hardly remembers signing himself in at the nurses station, and the three times he’s scolded for practically running down the halls slips quickly to the back of his mind.

The door is closed when he gets there and, for the first time all day, Kurt truly stops.

_A closed door isn’t a locked door._

Still, he stands there, looking at the door, just breathing as he slowly calms down. He feels silly, suddenly, over the fact that he’s spent almost twenty-four hours being so excited or something so _little_. It’s not like his being there is going to change anything, not for Blaine. _But I want to be here._

He touches the door knob and turns it slowly, on the off chance he’s barging in on the middle of something— _oh god what if they’re bathing him_ —but the room is empty, save for Blaine. Kurt closes the door behind himself quietly, walking very slowly towards Blaine’s bedside with deep, purposeful breaths.

The air feels heavy in the room in a way it hasn’t before. There’s a stillness to the room that should be expected, but isn’t, and a quiet that seems wrong. For a brief moment, Kurt can’t even here the blip of Blaine’s heart but it’s there, in the background, a sound he has learned to push away rather than focus on. But even that reassurance doesn’t erase the strange unease he’s feeling. Kurt doesn’t know why it’s there; it’s not like Mrs. Anderson is going to pop out of a closet and yell at him for being there or anything, although he glances at the only other door in the room—the bathroom—and then promptly shakes his head. That’s ridiculous. 

It looks different. The room is the same, but it’s more… Lived in. There are books piled next to his vase of flowers, a plush looking blanket over the chair he usually sits in that is also now occupied by a stuffed bear. The bag he’d seen Blaine’s mother with the last time he’d been there is sitting on another table, empty, but that’s the extent of the changes. They’re all so generic that Kurt isn’t sure he could gleam anything about Blaine from them.

And that’s when his attention goes back to Blaine. Blaine, who, rather than a mass of bandages, has a head full of dark, messy curls. Kurt smiles, unable to help himself, and finishes the last few steps to Blaine’s bedside.

He finds himself at a loss for words, standing there and fiddling anxiously with his fingers. He turns instead to move the bear from his seat, which he then pulls back to its usual spot. Kurt pauses for just a moment before tugging the chair a few inches closer to Blaine’s bedside and then folding himself into it.

“I hadn’t imagined you with curly hair.”

Kurt nearly slaps a hand over his mouth. _Great, that’s a great first thing to say_. He wonders if Blaine would smile or laugh or just roll his eyes, the way a lot of people tend to do.

“I mean. Hi. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?” His arms are close enough to the bedside that he can fold them loosely over the bars that keep Blaine from… Rolling to his death? Kurt can only assume that’s what they’re for. “I… Well, it’s not important why I wasn’t here. But I’m back now.” He rests his chin in his arms, watching the subtle movements of Blaine’s breathing.

“I like it, though. Your hair, I mean.” Kurt bites his lip, wondering when he got so ineloquent. “It’s a little long, I think. Nothing a haircut won’t fix.” Kurt wonders if that’s something they do at the hospital. “Haircut and a shave, and then you’ll look all polished up.”

He resists the urge to reach out and twirl one of Blaine’s curls around his fingers. They looked like they’d be good for that.

Kurt is staring again, he knows he is. His fingers drum against the bed bar with the inkling to reach out and touch, but he keeps it in and doesn’t let himself. There is something about Blaine that just _feels_ different. It’s almost as if the bandages had kept parts of Blaine locked away somehow.

Blaine feels more alive than he did before. His tumbling hair makes him look younger, so much younger, and… More like a person. All those times before, Blaine had basically been a stranger, but now it’s like he isn’t. It’s like Kurt is sitting at the bedside of a friend he’s always had and only just realized is there.

“I missed you.” His voice comes out thick and his face heats with embarrassment. Not that it matters. Not that Blaine can see. “Is that weird?” _Yes_. It feels weird.

“I came here on Monday. I didn’t even… I couldn’t come and see you. After everything with your mom, I felt like I shouldn’t be here. Like… Maybe if she didn’t want me here, you didn’t want me here, either.” Kurt’s fingers tighten around the bar and he casts his eyes downwards, inspecting the creases in the hospital sheet where it disappears beneath Blaine’s shoulder.

“I don’t know you Blaine, but. But you don’t really know me, either, do you? Some people think you can hear me, but. I mean, your own mom said me being here was pointless. But it doesn’t _feel_ pointless to me.” He glanced upwards, almost hoping that Blaine’s eyes would open and he would look at Kurt. He wonders what color they would be.

“Carole, she told me that no one comes to visit you. She told me… About your mom, about what she did. How she sat with you and waited, and now she doesn’t anymore.” Kurt thinks of why Mrs. Anderson still comes if her son is practically dead to her, and he can’t help but want there to still be hope for her. _You don’t have to give up_.

“No one deserves that, I think. Being alone. No one.” He sits up a little taller and without thinking about it, without giving himself a chance to second guess it, Kurt reaches forward and takes one of Blaine’s hands between his own. _There_. Because Blaine’s hand is warm and solid and a sign that Blaine is as alive as Kurt is.

“Can I tell you something?” Kurt’s voice becomes hushed, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of Blaine’s wrist. “It’s selfish of me, but, if you’re going to know me, maybe you should know that I can be selfish sometimes. As if my so-called master plan isn’t evidence enough of that.”

He focuses on the back and forth motion of his thumb, dragging his fingers back over the ridges of Blaine’s knuckles.

“I’m alone, too. I mean, I have friends, and I have my dad, but. I’m alone.” His breath leaves him slowly, as if he’s just admitted something that had only been a quiet thought late at night. “It’s the same kind of loneliness I imagine you feel, I guess. Maybe it’s selfish of me to make that comparison—after all, it’s not like you can do anything about it. I could easily go out and make myself happy, because happiness is _made_ it doesn’t just… It doesn’t just _happen_.” He’s squeezing Blaine’s hand, almost able to feel the way the blood beats through his veins.

“Not for me.” Kurt’s own voice is pitiful to his ears and he slowly relaxes his grip.

“I have these friends and family and I can’t even… They don’t know. They can’t even begin to understand what it’s like to be me, to live in this place and be different the way I’m different…” His breath catches and he stops, eyes slamming shut as he forces himself to breathe. He breathes and breathes until the prickling in his eyes stops, and he’s not sure how long it takes him.

“I’m not saying you know. You probably don’t. You probably go on dates on Friday nights, and walk down the halls and dread school because you hate homework rather than hating the people who sneer and mock you and throw you into dumpsters.” Blaine is probably so normal. He’s probably a good student, maybe with a girlfriend, and a table full of friends who he can talk to about football and video games and cars and whatever else generic, mid-western boys are into.

“Even so, those people aren’t here. And that says something, Blaine, even if you don’t know it. Even if no one else knows it, I do.”

Blaine doesn’t have other visitors. Do his hypothetical friends and girlfriend even know he’s in the hospital? Kurt can’t imagine why Blaine would be alone if he wasn’t _really_ alone. If he wasn’t alone in the way that Kurt often felt he was. The type of alone that meant being surrounded by people but never letting them close enough, never letting them look too closely.

_If I was the one in a coma, would people come for me?_

Yes. He knows right away that his dad wouldn’t leave his bedside no matter what, no matter how much time had passed. And his friends, New Directions, they’d be there. His heart aches suddenly with the reality of how alone Blaine really must be.

“I won’t let you be alone. You’ll never be alone again.” 

He lifts Blaine’s hand, pliant between both of Kurt’s palms, and presses his forehead against the jumble. _Never again_.


	10. Chapter 10

Despite the fact that he’d gotten to see Blaine, Kurt is sure that the week insists on being bad to spite him.

He feels stupid.

He feels stupid because he made a _stupid_ plan and it _backfired_.

Kurt hardly sees anything when he walks down the halls that day, blinded by the thoughts reeling right behind his eyes. Mercedes would probably accuse him of reverting back into a zombie if she was talking to him at all. He’d been prepared to dodge her all day, and yet she seems to be doing a good job of avoiding him on her own.

He’s angry. It’s a smoldering fire that makes him push through bunches of people, that twists around his throat making him want to yell and scream. He doesn’t. His face is in a cool mask, detached, the way he’s always is when he deals with anger. Where he wants to use words, he uses glares, and those are poignant enough.

The dinner was supposed to be an important stepping-stone in a game Kurt had practically forgotten he was playing. It was a game _he_ had set into motion and it had, rather quickly, fallen to the back of his mind and almost out of his head completely. As opposed to their parents getting together as Finn had seemed the other day, Carole had still managed to convince him to go to dinner with all of them the night before. Kurt had been riding his high from seeing Blaine, content to have the evening go well.

And, in all respects, it had.

For everyone but him.

Kurt has never seen his dad as enthusiastic about a conversation as he had been while talking to Finn at dinner. Carole and Kurt can hold a conversation, of course, and he really does like her, but this is his _dad_.

He doesn’t relish the thought of forcing himself through the day. It’s the end of the week and he’s _so ready_ for it to be over and done with. Everything is aggravating and when he catches sight of Finn in the hallways, the jealousy that flares inside of him is next to unbearable. Kurt stands there, people brushing past him, and he closes his eyes and breathes.

It feels like hours, but it’s only seconds, and then he turns on his heels and walks back in the direction he’d come from. He doesn’t stop, though. He goes until he’s pushing out the front doors, crossing the parking lot, and getting into his car.

Kurt has never been the sort of person to skip school. He’s a model student, a model son—well, he had _thought_ he was a model son. Apparently not having an interest in _football_ made him _replaceable_.

His chest constricts painfully as he shifts into drive, swinging his car and pointing towards home. His dad is working, so it’s as safe a bet as any. After all, Lima cops tend to have _way_ too much time on their hands; they love busting stupid teenagers for skipping. Then again, stupid teenagers do stupid teenage things, like skip and go to the mall or the movies.

Kurt isn’t a stupid teenager, if he _does_ say so himself.

It’s halfway home that he remembers the conversation with his dad the night before. He’d really tried to console Kurt, to make him feel better, but the words seemed to break over Kurt before disappearing completely. As long as Finn could possibly be in the picture, Kurt knows he’ll be fighting a losing battle for his dad’s affections.

The car turns sharply and then he’s driving away from the reminders. He can’t be at home right now because he knows all he’ll do is imagine Finn in his place, imagine the sort of relationship his dad always wanted with his son.

Kurt rubs at his eyes furiously and presses harder on the gas. He knows where he’s going now. It’s the only place he can go.

* * *

Cheerio uniforms don’t exactly aid Kurt in his attempts to keep his skipping school agenda under wraps. The Cheerios have a reputation in Lima and everyone knows them. But Kurt’s practice bag is resting on the back seat, full of a change of clothes, and while he never imagined changing outfits in the back of his car, he realizes it’s his only option.

He makes a mental note to not pack skinny jeans the next time he attempts it.

His phone continues to chirp with messages from Tina and Mercedes, who apparently is suddenly worried enough to care about where he is.

Kurt turns it off and leaves it in the glove compartment.

There’s a different nurse at the station when he signs in, who just looks at him and waves him on without a second thought. Hospitals are another place most teenagers don’t go when they skip school. The increasing ache in his heart just reminds him of how abnormal he really is.

He closes the door behind him when he enters Blaine’s room, settling into his chair soundlessly and practically slumping with relief.

Kurt has never liked hospitals, but there’s something about Blaine’s room that makes him feel safe and vulnerable all at once. He knows he can drop the stiffness in his shoulders, let his face fall, and not worry about anyone looking or judging. It’s one of the only places in the world where Kurt doesn’t have to be the way the world sees him.

He doesn’t know how long it is before he realizes he’s been staring at Blaine. In most cases, he would blush and avert his eyes, but Blaine doesn’t know he’s staring. Kurt could stare for days and memorize Blaine without any awkward glances or discomfort on either of their parts. Kurt lets out a huff of breath, the thought making the clutch around his heart tighter. The last thing he needs to think about now is Blaine waking up as a homophobic jerk.

“Remember how I had that plan?” His voice is so soft, hesitant, as if he’s bringing up something they agreed not to talk about. Which is silly, of course. The only thing they don’t really talk about is how Blaine isn’t waking up.

“I wish you could have told me how stupid it was. You seem like the kind of person who would do that. It’s easy for me to brush off other people’s advice, but you seem like you’d be persuasive.” Kurt’s eyes sweep Blaine’s face, and he can’t help but glance away.

“I love my dad a lot. He’s all I have.” He laces and unlaces his fingers again and again. “I don’t—I’m usually good, with planning things. I’ve been planning things my whole life. I thought it was a gift I had. Being able to anticipate everything that would go wrong, having back-up plans.” He can’t keep his hands still. They move down the length of his thighs until they’re clutching his knees.

“I didn’t have a back-up plan for this. I didn’t even—Why didn’t I think about how it would end? How things would go wrong?” Say his dad and Carole really hit it off, then what? They all lived in one house? That would all be fine and dandy, Kurt would see Finn more often, but then what? _What if they had gotten married? Finn would be my brother. My_ ** _brother_** _. Then what?_

“And now it’s all… Blown up in my face.” He needs to stop gripping so tightly or his jeans will crease. “My dad loves me, I know he loves me, but I’ve never—We don’t have a lot in common. We hardly even talk to each other, and then I see him with _Finn_ and. They were bonding, Blaine. I’ve never seen my dad like that. He was so… Excited, like Finn was everything he ever wanted in a son.”

Kurt doesn’t realize he’s crying until his voice breaks, and he lifts a finger to his eye, touching the tears curiously. He lets out a humorless huff of laughter, shaking his head and looking upwards as if that will stop them from coming.

“I always end up crying around you.” He sniffs, resisting the urge to rub his hand against his nose because it’s _disgusting_. He casts around, looking for tissues, and laughs slightly. _Because people in comas totally need tissues_.

The chair is too small, but Kurt pulls his knees up anyways, gripping them tightly to his chest as if that might make the ache easier to bear. “It’s always been him and me. And now it’s not that anymore. Now there’s Carole, and Finn, and my dad… He doesn’t _need_ me anymore.”

Kurt feels small, closing his eyes and trying to breathe. He hasn’t felt this small in years. It reminds him of nightmares and playground bullies and comforting hands on his back and hair. There are no hands now.

 _No. That’s not true_.

Slowly, he unfolds himself, taking deep, rattling breaths as he tries to calm down more. He knows he must look like a mess, and for once he’s thankful for Blaine’s closed eyes. But the thought is fleeting and he regrets it instantly. No. He’d much rather have Blaine looking at him.

He reaches out for Blaine’s hand again, cupping it with his own. His finger runs back and forth over Blaine’s first knuckle, as if the repetitive nature helps in centering him again.

“I’m sorry. You’re lying here in a _coma_ for who knows what reason, and I’m just… Unloading on you. If I was you, I’d roll my eyes and tell you to stop complaining.” Kurt smiles wryly, squeezing Blaine’s hand. “But maybe you’re nicer than I am. Then again, I don’t think that’s very hard.”

He turns Blaine’s hand over, trying to distract himself by running the tip of his finger over the contours of Blaine’s palm.

“I don’t know what to do,” Kurt admits, voice quiet as if he’s admitting something shameful. Maybe because Kurt _always_ knew what to do or how to act. Life is but a stage. Isn’t that what Shakespeare had said? _If I’m a player, I’d really like to get my hands on the script._ “My dad is… Happier than he has been in a long time. Carole makes him happy. _I_ did that.” His fingers clench into a fist within Blaine’s open palm, and Kurt’s eyes soak up the difference in their skin tones.

“I want my dad to be happy. Of course I do, but…” Kurt closes his eyes, surprised at the reemergence of the pricking feeling behind them, threatening more tears. “I don’t want him to replace me at the cost of it.” His voice catches and he immediately clamps down on his lip, his teeth digging in uncomfortably hard.

It’s not like it matters. It’s only Blaine. Blaine, who doesn’t know Kurt. Blaine, who probably can’t even hear Kurt. Blaine, who, for some reason, is someone Kurt wants to tell everything to.

Kurt picks up Blaine’s hand again, laying it palm up on one of Kurt’s own hands. It’s rougher than his own— _maybe he washes dishes without gloves_ —and Kurt finds the pad of his finger running over the contrasting areas of skin. It’s strangely fascinating, the way it feels. Kurt hasn’t had the opportunity to hold hands with many boys, and _this_ hardly counts, but it’s… Something. Blaine is _something_ , something that Kurt isn’t altogether familiar with and can’t stay away from. Kurt wonders for a moment if maybe there’s something in the water that brings him back, but he knows that’s not it. He knows that it’s all Blaine.

He curls Blaine’s fingers, almost as if he intends to make a fist, but stops when the roughness of Blaine’s fingertips brush the back of Kurt’s hand. _What would it be like to really hold hands with you?_

Huffing out a surprised breath, Kurt shakes his head. It was normal to think something like that. After all, this is the closest he will probably ever get to holding hands with a boy until he escapes to New York—unless, of course, Finn—

Kurt’s nose scrunches at the thought, bringing him to a standstill. That… He shakes his head again. He’s just upset and feeling weird. Finn is the reason for all of this, right? Right. Kurt just... Has a lot on his mind. That’s all.

Shifting their mass of hands again, Kurt tentatively laces his fingers through Blaine’s. It’s strange, because Blaine doesn’t grip back, but it’s also… _Something_. Kurt smiles, laughing at himself. He obviously doesn’t have as expansive a vocabulary as he thinks if the word he keeps defaulting to is _something_.

He rests his other elbow on the bed, propping his chin on his hand and turning his attention to Blaine fully. Their hands rest, still laced, near Blaine’s hip. Blaine is really very attractive. He always had been, of course, but it had felt weird and borderline creepy to check someone out when they were covered in bruises and bandages (and _in a coma_ ).

But now Blaine looks like he could just be asleep. Kurt resists the urge to lean forward and shake his shoulder, just to make sure. But he’s pretty sure the hand molesting and frantic ranting he’d just done would have woken the dead and— _wow, really? That was in poor taste_.

His eyes dance along the contours of Blaine’s face, the slope of his nose, the bow of his lips, the way his eyelashes fan against his cheeks. It reminds Kurt of butterfly kisses, the kind his mom used to brush against his temple, and he smiles slightly. With eyelashes like that, Blaine probably gives the best butterfly kisses. Kurt chuckles at the thought and how ridiculous it is.

What kind of compliment would that be? _You look like you give awesome butterfly kisses._

Kurt doesn’t keep tabs on his staring anymore. He knows he can look at Blaine the way he doesn’t get to look at other people, because Blaine doesn’t know he’s looking. Blaine can’t glare at him, or sneer in disgust, or think Kurt’s contaminating him. 

“Please,” he whispers, gripping Blaine’s hand a bit more tightly. “Please be different.”

* * *

When Kurt bolts upright, it’s dark outside and there’s a hand on his shoulder. He can still feel his fingers laced with Blaine’s, and his other arm is draped unashamedly across Blaine’s waist. If he wasn’t so groggy, he’d feel more embarrassed, but he’s more concerned with whether or not he has hospital sheet lines on his face.

“Kurt?”

He squints, turning his head to see someone standing there—oh. It’s Carole. He makes a small noise of acknowledgement, knowing his voice is still too rough with sleep.

“I didn’t know you were here. Did you forget to sign in?” Her hand moves to brush hair from his forehead and Kurt stills at the gesture, surprised. It’s such a motherly thing to do that it catches him off guard, until _oh god my hair is probably so flat right now_.

But. He hadn’t signed in. He hadn’t even thought about it. He shakes his head and sees Carole nod.

“I’ll take care of that, don’t worry about it.” She gives his shoulder a squeeze and he smiles sleepily.

“Thanks,” he mutters, turning his face back into the bed despite the horrible stiffness in his back. This really isn’t a good way to sleep.

“Honey?” Kurt turns again, eyebrows pinched in annoyance. He wants to _sleep_. “Why don’t you head home? Visiting hours are about over, anyways.”

Wait. Kurt sits up a bit more, eyes flashing around for a clock and _why does Blaine’s room not have a clock?_ He fumbles for his phone before realizing—right. He left it in his car.

“What time is it?” He asks, lifting his head and wincing at the pain in his neck.

“Nearly eight.”

Now Kurt does sit a little straighter. He picks up his arm, flushing now as he realizes where it was, rubbing at his face to get the sleep out of his eyes. His mouth feels dry and tastes awful and _how long has he been asleep?_

“I’m guessing you didn’t plan to take a nap,” Carole teases lightly as Kurt rolls his shoulders.

“Well, you know, I just wanted Blaine to feel included in the days activities.” His quip is interrupted by a yawn, and when he looks at Carole, he sees her looking at the way his hand is laced with Blaine’s. _Dammit_.

“It’s late, and we have a date tomorrow, don’t we?”

He feels grateful, suddenly, that she says nothing more about his position. She doesn’t ask why he fell asleep there, why he’s holding Blaine’s hand, or why he keeps coming back every day. It settles in him, solidly, that he truly likes Carole as a person. The bitterness of his rant earlier makes him feel guilty now.

“Yes we do. I hope you’re ready; there’s nothing like shopping with Kurt Hummel.”

Carole laughs, low and quiet, and Kurt stands, his fingers slipping from Blaine’s. His hand feels strangely empty and he flexes it, wanting nothing more than to reach out and reestablish the connection. He doesn’t.

He does pause, leaning and brushing the tips of his fingers lightly against Blaine’s cheek. “I’ll see you on Monday,” he whispers, his words laced with promise. Kurt longs to come back the next day, but the fear of running into his mother is still too raw. 

Carole sees him out, and Kurt looks at Blaine one last time and smiles before the door closes.

* * *

He doesn’t turn his phone back on until he’s home, and it vibrates for what seems like ten minutes as the texts steadily stream in. His dad’s car isn’t in the driveway, and Kurt can only assume he’s working late at the shop again. He’s lucky, he knows. Carole could have easily backed him up for being at the hospital, but it’s a conversation he rather not have.

He flips on lights as he walks through the house, phone in hand as he scrolls through texts from Mercedes, Tina, and even Rachel Berry. Well, he’d skipped Glee club. It isn’t a surprise that Miss Diva herself made it a personal goal to harp at anyone who wasn’t there to sway behind her.

Even after the nap at the hospital, he still feels exhausted. It’s early, but the day seems to have dragged on forever and now he just wants to sleep. He hasn’t eaten all day, not since the banana he’d grabbed on his way out that morning, and he knows he should put something in his system.

There’s a red light blinking on the answering machine, and Kurt presses it as he looks through the fridge. His dad has a doctor’s appointment coming up; Kurt needs to make sure he goes. The next message is from McKinley, and Kurt stills as it plays and relays his absence from his last three periods.

He chews his lip and the machine keeps going. Mercedes. She sounds legitimately worried and Kurt promises himself to text her just so that she knows he’s alive, at the very least. And then Rachel Berry and Kurt _does not_ want to know how she got his home phone number. He stands in front of the answering machine, taking a deep, steadying breath, before he hits ‘erase.’


	11. Chapter 11

Kurt wakes up Saturday morning feeling conflicted. Conflicted and also insanely groggy.  
  
After getting home the night before, he’d hardly made it through a small dinner and his nightly routine before falling into bed. He’d briefly let Mercedes know that yes, he was alive, before he was unconscious again.  
  
He doesn’t really understand it when people say they have to “sleep on something.” When Kurt wakes up, he is no more decided on what he plans to do about the whole Burt-and-Carole situation than he was the day before. It’s not as if his brain works on _those_ problems while he dreams, at least not to his memory.  
  
He vaguely remembers a phantom presence of fingers laced with his before the thought is swept away with the rest of his sleep lethargy in the hot water of his morning shower.  
  
Shopping is normally an activity that has Kurt in a flurry of activity, but today he’s less hurricane and more… Aggravated tropical storm.  
  
First, there’s the fact that he’s not even sure he wants to continue to encourage his father’s relationship. Kurt had been the driving force behind it, that much is certain, but even he realizes that it’s out of his hands now. Even if Kurt does stop being an active participant, he knows it won’t change anything.  
  
So what does he do? Act hostile towards Carole?  
  
 _Except that she’s Blaine nurse, so then what?_  
  
He styles his hair a bit more ferociously than he intends and sighs heavily, having to completely redo it.  
  
No, that isn’t an option. Besides, his dad would get upset with him. Burt values Kurt’s opinion, but that only goes so far. People Burt and Carole’s age know what they want, bratty teenagers aside.  
  
His dad is sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in his robe and drinking coffee, when Kurt comes downstairs. Burt gives a small nod as he sips his coffee, paper open on the table, and Kurt smiles back. He eyes the empty plate in front of his father suspiciously, but lets it go. Even he can’t monitor his father every waking moment of every day.  
  
“Where are you going today?” Burt asks as Kurt settles at the table with a yogurt.  
  
Kurt wishes he could say the hospital. He feels that weird tug that’s there these days, wanting him to go see Blaine. _Is he alright? Is he lonely? Did he wake up?_ But there’s still the icy fear settled at the base of his spine from his last Saturday visit. What if Blaine’s mother finds him again? Then what will happen? But the hospital isn’t even an option, not today.  
  
“Carole and I have a date,” he says nonchalantly, peeling back the lid of his yogurt before glancing up at his dad. Burt has set his coffee down and is looking at him strangely.  
  
“Is that right?”  
  
Kurt hums in the affirmative, dipping a spoon into his breakfast.  
  
“We’re going shopping.”  
  
He can’t not look at his dad’s face. The way Burt’s lips pull up slightly at the corners and the shine in his eye. Kurt recognizes that look. It’s one he’s seen there before. His dad is _proud_ of him and guilt drops like a stone in Kurt’s stomach.  
  
Burt doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at Kurt as he eats his yogurt. His dad eventually stands up, pausing as he passes Kurt’s chair, and sets a heavy hand on his shoulder.  
  
There are still no words, but Kurt can practically feel the _thank you_ and _you’re a good son_ reverberate down to his wingtips.  
  
He’s glad that his dad can’t see his face, or all the remorse there.

* * *

The Lima Mall is far from impressive. It’s department stores and nationwide chains and _everything_ is off the rack. Kurt only ever comes here with Mercedes and he hasn’t purchased a single thing since his dad let him start handling his own shopping. But Carole doesn’t care what the labels say and, _really_ , anything is better than the acid wash combinations he’s so frequently seen her in.

It’s more awkward than Kurt would have liked at first. His dad’s face seems ingrained behind his eyelids and Carole’s affectionate smile and apparent _need_ for Kurt’s approval isn’t making the whole thing easier.

_I’m debating ruining your happiness and you can’t stop talking about how excited you are._

It wasn’t until they’d parked and Carole had set her hand on his arm that anything had changed. _Honey, are you okay?_ Kurt had felt like he would burst into tears and he’d begun tipping on his knifepoint.

 _Tired_. She hadn’t bought it, but maybe mothers never did. _Mothers. Moms._ Weren’t they supposed to have special powers?

After that he thaws, looping Carole’s arm through his and reveling in the fact that he gets to wear his own clothing someplace other than the hospital. As they walk by stores— _Kurt, should we go in here? No, okay._ —he takes the opportunity to educate Carole.

Kurt explains in detail his ideas for her hair— _It will be so much easier to manage while working, too_ —and the types of color palettes she should aim for to compliment her skin tone. The best thing is that Carole is actively listening to him. She asks questions when she doesn’t understand what he’s saying, and makes little comments of her own. Not only that, but eventually she’s looking at clothing in the store windows and telling Kurt the pros and cons of them.

It’s strange for him. When he shops with Mercedes he practically shops _for_ Mercedes, not that he _minds_. But with Carole, she actually wants to learn these things. It will be at least three more mall trips before he lets her buy anything on her own, but she’s making progress.

They’re in Macy’s when Carole insists they look at the men’s clothing. Kurt practically recoils, eyes widening in horror when Carole laughs.

“I thought maybe we could pick out something for your dad.” There’s a knowing sparkle in her eye and Kurt feels himself relax.

“That sounds like a great idea.”

It’s when they’re passing the sleepwear department that Kurt pauses, something catching his attention. When Carole is five steps in front of him she turns, following his line of sight.

“Does your dad need pajamas?”

Kurt blinks, turning to look at her. “What?” She gestures at the rather sparse gathering of men’s pajamas with an open hand. “Oh, no, I just.”

He turns again, taking a few steps towards the display. They’re at least on hangers and not wrapped in tacky shrink plastic, and his fingers are drawn to the sleeve of a sleep shirt. Cotton, a little stiff, but nothing a wash wouldn’t fix. They’re an insanely subtle grey pinstripe and—he checks the tag—Ralph Lauren. Not ideal, but at least not _generic_.

“Those are nice.” Kurt’s surprised he doesn’t fall into the clothing rack when Carole appears at his elbow. He looks at her as if she just caught him committing some sort of crime.

“I, well, for _Macy’s_.” His face feels hot and he really hopes that _moms have superhero powers_ thing turns out to be insanely false. Carole reaches out and touches his arm. _Dammit_.

“I think they’d look very nice on Blaine, personally.” The comment is made so casually Kurt’s body almost jerks with shock. There’s no way—Carole can’t read _minds_ or anything. Kurt just nods his head slightly, lips folded together to keep him from saying anything.

“You’ve become quite close to him, haven’t you?”

Kurt blinks rapidly, swallowing, before letting go of the pajama sleeve.

“Are you hungry?” His voice comes out higher than he means it to, but Carole just smiles.

“Actually I’ve been craving a pretzel since we passed Auntie Anne’s. I haven’t had one of those in _years_.”

They leave Macy’s and the pajamas, and Kurt quietly sighs in relief. _That was close_.

* * *

The food court is bustling with activity, which isn’t unusual for a Saturday afternoon. There isn’t a lot to do in Lima and the mall is one of the many teenage haunts. It makes Kurt a little more cautious, a little more likely to glance around, feeling embarrassed when his uneasy eyes catch Carole’s gaze more than once.

They find a table tucked into the corner, with their pretzels (Carole had gone cinnamon, but Kurt preferred classic) and lemonades. It’s been so long since Kurt has done something like this. It’s so simple, eating a pretzel at a mall, and the normality of it prickles across his skin.

“Are you going to get them?”

Carole is a neat eater. She probably grabbed five times as many napkins as they would need, but she wipes her fingers with them instead of licking the cinnamon sugar away. It almost makes Kurt nod his head in approval.

“I’m sorry?”

“The pajamas. You should get them for him.”

Kurt practically chokes on his lemonade, and Carole leans across the table to pat him on the back. It should be awkward, but she does it with such ease that it’s hard to think it’s anything but normal. At least, normal for her. Her palm is strangely warm and comforting through the back of his vest.

“I wasn’t—”

“Kurt.” Her voice is clipped and laced with an authority he’s never heard there before, which draws his eyes up in shock. She’s staring at them with a raised eyebrow that only portrays one idea— _I’m waiting_. “You know,” she says, tearing her pretzel into smaller pieces. “When you invited me to go shopping with you, I… Thought it was an opportunity. For us. To… Become friends.”

She looks at him again and there is that nervous need again. Kurt feels like his entire mood shifts and he smiles slightly.

He feels it, the need to tip one way or another. Carole or no Carole.

“That’s… I’d. Yes, we can be friends.”

Carole’s hand closes around his and he stares at it like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen before looking up at her again.

“Good.” She smiles, and Kurt can’t help but smile back. Even though he feels off balance, he generally _likes_ Carole. Over the last two weeks, she’s become more than _Finn Hudson’s mother_ and _Blaine’s nurse_. She’s just Carole now.

“So, as your friend, Kurt.” _Uh oh._ Her voice adopts that no-nonsense tone again and she pauses only to take a sip of lemonade. “You can talk to me, you know.” Her face softens then so that she’s smiling.

“I don’t have anything to talk about,” Kurt bites out, dusting some of the salt from his pretzel. Why do they always put so much on these things?

Carole sighs, long and loud, and Kurt can’t help but narrow his eyes when he looks back up at her.

“Well, if you don’t have anything to say, I do.” She sits up a bit straighter in her chair, her hand closing a bit more firmly around Kurt’s own. “I think that what you’re doing for Blaine is amazing.” His eyes widen as Carole just smiles at him earnestly. “You didn’t know, of course, the situation with his parents when you started visiting him but…” She shrugs just slightly, seemingly unable to express whatever words are shining in her expressive eyes.

“I’m not supposed to get too attached to patients, but Blaine. He’s around your age, around Finn’s age, and I can’t help but feel motherly towards him. Before you started visiting, I would spend as much time as I could in that room just so he wouldn’t be alone.” Both of her hands are holding Kurt’s now, their pretzels forgotten as Carole talks.

“You’ve just brought so much life and color, Kurt, and I think that’s just a part of who you are. And I personally believe that you being there… It’s helping Blaine.”

Kurt’s throat feels thick as he swallows, glancing away from her finally even though the rest of his body still feels frozen.

“I—” He stops, swallowing again, and tries to get his mouth to cooperate. “Is it weird?” He glances back at Carole uneasily but is only met with more soft smiles.

“I think it’s lovely. You know, connections between people happen all the time in so many different ways. I’m old—” Kurt scoffs and Carole blushes and rolls her eyes, “—I’m old and I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, Kurt. If it’s important to you, who has the right to take it away?”

Kurt looks down at the table, where his hand is still pressed between Carole’s and beginning to get grossly warm. His fingers twitch and Carole seems to take it as a sign, drawing back and plopping a piece of pretzel in her mouth.

“I think I’ll get them for him,” Kurt admits quietly, his hand now curling around his sweating lemonade. Carole just gives a nod and then offers him a piece of her cinnamon pretzel (which is unsurprisingly delicious).

It’s later, when Kurt has bustled Carole off to the salon and is sitting nearby to supervise all hair decisions, that Kurt finally tips.

He can make it work. Carole is an _amazing_ woman and his dad deserves her. They deserve _each other_. Besides, Kurt has blood on his side and that has to count for something with his dad, right?

Kurt fingers the Macy’s bag sitting beside him pensively, reaching in and stroking a finger along the smooth cotton of the pajamas. He glances up at Carole in time to share a glance with her as her hairdresser gestures wildly with his hands. It’s almost like a silent conversation, and Kurt mouths an _I know_ as Carole tries her hardest not to laugh.

He settles back with his magazine and smiles. He’d never thought he’d come out of this with a friend like Carole.


	12. Chapter 12

“I’m sorry,” Kurt and Mercedes blurt at the same time, surprise flashing across their faces. Kurt holds in a smile while Mercedes has no problem letting hers shine through.  
  
“Me first,” Kurt says, pressing the palm of his hand to his chest. Aside from the single text he’d sent her Friday night, Kurt hasn’t spoken to Mercedes since Thursday. But that’s not the reason he feels guilty. “I haven’t been a very good friend lately, and after all of that…” He leaves it hanging. He doesn’t want to admit that he’d been blind to the issues Mercedes herself has been suffering through, too ashamed to admit how invested in his own life he’s been.  
  
“Kurt, if we’re giving bad friend speeches, you should’ve let me go first.” She steps forward and hugs him, and he hugs her back tightly. Mercedes might not understand him all the time, but he cares about her. They’re friends, and he can’t imagine attending McKinley without her by his side. “Look, you’ve been happier lately. And if Blaine is the reason for that, I’m not gonna mess with it.”  
  
 _Even if I don’t understand it._ It lays unspoken, but Kurt already knows it. Mercedes doesn’t understand it, but he appreciates her acceptance of it at least.  
  
“Are you going there today?” she asks as they step apart.  
  
“Yeah, actually. We don’t have practice, so.” He bites his lip. It’s nice that Mercedes wants to be supportive, but now talking about Blaine with anyone but Carole feels… Strange. Like he’s divulging some sort of secret.  
  
“You should let me come sometime.” He doesn’t respond, just gives her a tight smile as he gathers his things. That seems to pacify her. Kurt knows that she’s trying, that she thinks this is what she should be doing. Maybe it is. But Blaine is… He blinks rapidly, shaking the sudden possessive inclination that has bubbled up. _His_. Blaine is not _his_.  
  
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asks before they split for their respective locker rooms. Kurt just gives a nod as Mercedes reaches over and squeezes his arm. His smile becomes more natural. “Remember, don’t miss another practice. I covered for you on Friday, but you heard Coach Sylvester.”  
  
Oh, Kurt remembered alright. She’d made it quite clear that if he misses another practice, he’ll be kicked off the team. Well, said a little more colorfully, perhaps. But patronizing nicknames aside, and some sort of metaphor about Monica Lewinsky that Kurt is trying his best to forget, that had been the gist of it.  
  
He gives Mercedes a final wave before slipping off to shower, thankful when the locker room is empty except for him.

* * *

Last Friday aside, this is the earliest Kurt has been at the hospital since his first visit. He walks with a slight spring in his step, excited to see Blaine now that he’s cleared up the mess with Mercedes and has decided not to hate Carole. It’s a good feeling.

He can hear Carole before he gets to the room, moving around and talking to Blaine so softly that he can only hear the murmur and not the actual words. It makes him smile, remembering their conversation, and Kurt finds himself grateful that out of all the nurses at Lima Memorial, Blaine ended up with Carole.

A greeting is on his lips when he enters the room, but it quickly crawls back into his mouth and _dies there_. Kurt’s shoulders drop in shock because Blaine is propped up on the bed and very, _very_ shirtless. He’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging open, but if he has any motor control left, it’s focused on keeping him upright.

“Kurt!”

He’d completely forgotten that Carole was in the room at all.

“You’re here earlier than usual.” He just gives a small nod, resisting the urge to let his eyes drift back over to Blaine. _Blaine_. _Shirtless Blaine_. Kurt has never really looked at a shirtless boy in person before. _Shirtless_. Blaine is _shirtless_.

“I. Pep rally today, so. No practice,” he manages, and Carole just smiles.

“Well, perfect timing. I was just putting Blaine in his new pajamas.”

After their mall trip on Saturday, Kurt had given the pajamas to Carole to take with her. It’s not like he could come and present Blaine with the pajamas like he would on a regular occasion. They were something Kurt bought for Blaine because, well, doesn’t everyone deserve nice pajamas while they’re in a coma?

What he hadn’t expected was being there while the changing was actually going on and _oh my god what if Blaine isn’t wearing pants?_

“I just finished doing the pants, but would you like to help me with the top? It can be tricky with all the wires.” Carole’s voice is so nonchalant it’s almost like she’s talking about something mundane, like laundry or dishes. _She is talking about touching Blaine. While Blaine is shirtless. Blaine is shirtless_.

Kurt’s mouth flounders for a few moments and his hands flap a bit uselessly.

“Am I—Is it okay for me to do that?”

“It’s not like I’m asking you to redo his IV, Kurt.” She grins at him. “I just need you to hold him up.”

Kurt quickly imagines himself doing something ridiculous, like looping his arms around Blaine’s waist so that he doesn’t topple over, or somehow fitting in behind him. Both ideas make him want to melt into the floor in embarrassment.

Carole’s touch to his hand almost makes him fall backwards, he’s so unprepared for it.

“You don’t have to, you know.” She levels a gaze at Kurt but he finds that he can’t quite meet it, not with _those_ thoughts in his head, and stares over her shoulder instead.

“No, I. It’s fine.” When did his mouth get so _dry?_

Carole stares at him a few moments longer, a look in her eyes that Kurt doesn’t recognize, before she guides him to one side of the bed. Kurt can feel his breath huffing out in short puffs as he realizes how _close_ he is to Blaine. Shirtless Blaine. Blaine is shirtless.

“It’s okay to touch him, you know. He’s clean. He just had his bath.”

Kurt is _not going to think about that right now_.

He just nods and sees Carole’s movement in the corner of his eye, but he can’t look away from Blaine now that he’s looking, even though it feels _wrong_ , like he’s invading something. Kurt knows that he wouldn’t want someone ogling him while he was shirtless and unconscious and… _No_. Should he close his eyes? Would that be weird?

“Kurt?”

Oh. _Right_.

“Just keep his back away from the mattress for a minute or so.”

Kurt isn’t even sure how to go about _doing_ this. After all, he doesn’t want to hurt Blaine. He’s healing well, and where Kurt is sure there had been horrible bruises before, there are only just spider webs of yellow discoloration. There are still bandages wrapped around him, underneath his arms, over his— _oh_. His ribs.

His eyes can’t stop now. They trail down the bandage on his chest to the dark curls of hair that taper lower, across a stomach that, while not insanely toned, is… Nice. Kurt always thought he was into those abs that could be seen from space, but Blaine’s are soft and real and _there_. Down, down, disappearing beneath the waistband of Blaine’s pajamas pants and—Kurt’s eyes snap to the ceiling, his face so red he’s sure it must be _glowing_.

“Kurt.”

_Right._

His hands and arms move indecisively, inches from Blaine’s body, as he tries to figure out where to put them. One closes over the juncture of Blaine’s neck and shoulder and _oh god I am touching a shirtless boy_. The other moves behind Blaine, fingers splaying low on his back.

It’s different from the last time he touched Blaine, when the thin cotton had at least been separating their skin. But now it is so obvious, the way his skin gives and shifts beneath Kurt’s palms. There are firm muscles that hold their ground to Kurt’s touch—strong muscles that shift as he inches Blaine forward.

Kurt’s eyes are roaming and he really wishes he would stop looking at Blaine with Carole _right there_. There is no _way_ she doesn’t know that Kurt is looking. And maybe, _maybe_ , Kurt could have looked away before touching him. But now he can’t. He is fascinated by the way his hands look on someone else, on another _boy_ , and _wow_ , he is _so_ gay. His throat feels dry and he can’t help but swallow, the noise seeming so much louder than it should be.

Blaine’s chest moves, just barely, the steady rhythm of breathing. Kurt wants to press his hand against Blaine’s stomach and feel it rise and fall, wants to settle it over Blaine’s chest and feel the beat of his heart. _Oh god when did I get so creepy?_

He doesn’t. He would never. But that doesn’t stop the fact that he wants to. That he wants to press his hands to every inch of Blaine that he can see, to map his back and his chest, to feel the hair trailing down his stomach against his hand.

When did it get so hard to breathe?

He is shocked out of his weird entrancement with Blaine’s chest by the brush of fabric against his hands, surprised to look up and see that Carole is already done putting the shirt on. Well, at least Kurt had been right about the fact that the subtle stripes would look rather amazing on Blaine.

“Ease him back down and do the buttons?” Carole meets his eyes and Kurt just nods. There is no way he can speak just yet.

It feels so gentle, and strangely intimate, to ease him back onto the mattress. He is reminded, briefly, of the time he’d helped Carole turn him. But that is nothing compared to this moment. The electricity in his veins at that moment had been sparks compared to the electricity that courses through him now.

With Blaine resting down again, Kurt adjusts the collar of the pajamas, fingers touching fleetingly against the stubbly skin of Blaine’s neck.

Okay. Buttons. He can do this.

He hesitates for just a moment before straightening the shirt out and beginning at the bottom. Oh god, maybe he _can’t_ do this. His hands are shaking as he slips the first button closed. This should be easy, he buttons up shirts on a nearly daily basis, so why is this so hard?

But Kurt knows the answer. He knows it’s because it’s another boy, another boy that he’s _touching_. The backs of his fingers are brushing over the warm skin low on another boy’s stomach, on _Blaine’s_ stomach. The hair is softer than he had thought it would be, and Kurt imagines himself raking his fingers through it, up Blaine’s chest, gripping Blaine by his shoulders and—

His breath catches and suddenly his fingers are flying, closing button after button after button. He nearly jumps away from the bed and quickly begins gathering his things.

“Kurt?” Carole looks at him uncertainly, and Kurt knows it’s hopeless to wish he wasn’t blushing as much as he knows he is.

“I just remembered that I was supposed to meet a study group, and I.” He swallows, turning away. He can’t look at Carole right now. “I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? Bye Carole, bye Blaine.”

His voice is so high it’s embarrassing, but he needs to get out of there, he needs to get out of there _now_. His fingers are still tingling with the heat from Blaine’s skin as he pulls his bag awkwardly in front of his body.

* * *

The skin beneath his hands is warm and unyielding. His palms drag over the subtle definition of abs, fingers catching on chest hair and tugging until a groan sounds from the body beneath him. He brushes over ribs, grasping at them as his lips trace over a hip bone, mouth clamping down and sucking at the sweaty skin.

Strong hands work through his hair, fingernails scratching against his neck before fingers clamp down against his arms. Kurt drags his mouth up from hip to waist, hands splaying wide until his thumbs catch nipples and crush against them until they harden. Another groan and Kurt grins, kissing up over each individual rib as quickened breaths make muscles pulse under his lips.

Fingers drag down his back, pulling the skin roughly and following the shape of his backbone. Kurt gasps, arching into it, pressing chest against chest and sucking in air too quickly. Hands push low on his back, forcing their bodies back together and Kurt runs his tongue along a collarbone, grazing it lightly with his teeth.

The touch disappears and Kurt thrashes around for it wildly, _needing_ it, twisting, scrambling against bedding until he’s being pushed against it. Those same hands cup his neck as Kurt throws it back, moving in gentle teasing brushes down his chest until they brush against his nipples. He whimpers as the touches keep moving, almost tickling down his abdomen and then rubbing circles by his hips and—

“Please, please, please,” he gasps, hips twisting up, seeking friction. He’s so hard and hot all of a sudden, even the slide of sheets against his back seems to increase his arousal.

The brush of fingertips is flirty, teasing, and Kurt wants to sob, wants to beg, when a sure hand curls around the base of his cock and he cries out.

“Please, please, _please_ ,” he says more urgently, hips moving until a hand pins them down and Kurt whimpers. The touch moves tantalizingly slowly up his shaft, too dry and warm and so, _so_ good. Kurt tries to thrust up again, but he’s still being held down.

There’s breath against his neck, flutters of it, hinting at words that he can’t hear. He wants to feel lips, tongue, teeth, strains his neck in search for them.

“Touch me, touch me, _touch me_.”

The breath is against his thigh now, stubble pressing against his skin in a way that shouldn’t feel so good but does. His hands grip shoulders as fingers swipe over the head of his cock, gathering the precome and then dragging back down in a way that makes Kurt groan deep in his chest.

There’s no more teasing then. The hand moves faster and Kurt finds he can suddenly thrust up into the fist, too tight around his cock and catching the crown of his head deliciously. He can hardly keep his eyes open with the way they keep rolling back is his head, that promising, tortuous pressure building and building as his breathing grows heavier. He’s close, so, _so_ close, but he doesn’t want it to end, god, please don’t let it end. But then he’s coming, hands gripping tightly into skin as he shakes and gasps through wave after wave of pleasure.

“ _Blaine._ ”

Kurt is breathing heavily when his eyes flash open, his lungs struggling to take in air and making him feel lightheaded and dizzy even though he’s lying down. He feels spent and relaxed and—

The front of his pajama pants is wet.

The front of his pajama pants is _wet_ and _sticky_.

 _Oh fuck_.


	13. Chapter 13

Oh god, they all know.  
  
That’s why they aren’t looking at Kurt. Never mind that no one ever really looks at Kurt, and he likes it that way, but today he knows they’re not looking because they _know_.  
  
He doesn’t know how they know, but they _have_ to know.  
  
Even though he’d showered twice that morning, scrubbing at his skin until it was practically raw, it still feels as if they can see his thoughts on his skin.  
  
No amount of body wash could get rid of the feelings or the images, _oh god the images._  
  
So when Finn pops up in front of him, Kurt practically shoves _himself_ into the row of lockers.  
  
For a minute Finn just looks at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.  
  
“Dude, you okay?”  
  
“Fine,” Kurt answers too fast, eyes wide as saucers. _He knows, he knows, he totally knows_.  
  
Finn looks skeptical for a moment, but then he shrugs it off. Kurt is too preoccupied with the idea that _shame shame shame I had a sex dream about Blaine_ is written all over his face to be offended by the gesture.  
  
His conscience really needs to stop rhyming.  
  
“So did you decide what to do about our parents?”  
  
What?  
  
Kurt stares at Finn, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he tries to convey _excuse me?_ rather than _I had a sex dream about Blaine_.  
  
“You know.” Finn shifts his weight as if he’s suddenly uncomfortable. “About them dating?”  
  
Oh. _That_. It feels weird now to even think about it, as if his whole freak out over the issue happened months rather than days ago.  
  
“Nothing,” Kurt says simply, with a shrug of his shoulder, eyes darting around. Samantha Reiner’s eyes pass over him and _oh god she totally knows_.  
  
“Nothing,” Finn echoes, eyebrows shooting up. Kurt sighs, straightening his posture (oh _god_ , has he been _slouching?_ ) and looking Finn in the eye as best he can.  
  
“Yes. Nothing.” He shuffles his bag on his shoulder, suppressing a wince at the way the synthetic material of his Cheerios uniform rubs against his skin. “They’re adults, Finn, and they’ll figure it out on their own.”  
  
“Wait a second.” Finn looks really confused now and Kurt suddenly feels frustrated.  
  
Anthony DiMarco opens his locker across from them and doesn’t look in their direction. _Oh god is it that obvious? How does everyone know?_  
  
“Last week you were all for breaking them up, what the hell happened?”  
  
Kurt’s resulting smile is tight lipped and just this side of polite.  
  
“Things change, Finn Hudson. Not all things, of course, some things always stay the same.” He pauses now, looking at Finn for a moment before he finds himself blinking and smiling softly. “Sometimes it just takes a little something, and then everything is different.”  
  
“Dude, what are you talking about?”  
  
Kurt almost laughs, almost, except that Nicole Stevens just brushed against his shoulder and he is suddenly reminded of the way he is practically strutting around McKinley High like Hester Prynne.  
  
“Just let them be, Finn.”  
  
He walks away, leaving Finn behind to sort through his confusion. So there’s the whole “his dad and Finn” thing to worry about, but Kurt can deal with that if it comes up again. Maybe Finn will be so reluctant about his mom dating Kurt’s dad that he won’t even participate in any group activities. Maybe he’ll even hate Burt. Not that Kurt wants _anyone_ to hate his dad, but it would make things easier.  
  
And despite the fact that everyone seems to know he had a vivid sex dream about a boy in a coma, one good thing has come from it (okay, well _more_ than one good thing, but—now is not the time).  
  
Kurt pauses, turning to look back, and sees Finn retreating into the crowd. Unlike the Kurt of a few weeks ago, he isn’t sad to see Finn walking away. Something has happened, Kurt is sure of it, that has suddenly made everything clear.  
  
Finn might not be able to change, but that doesn’t mean Kurt’s feelings can’t.

* * *

Kurt doesn’t even remember what happens in Glee or Cheerios practice. He’s not out of it enough for anyone in the choir room to notice (but, then again, that’s not unusual), but Coach Sylvester chewed him out quite a few times. Not that it did any good.

He’s at the hospital before it even registers where he’s going. Because it’s just what he does now, at the end of the day. Glee, Cheerios, Hospital, Blaine.

 _Blaine_. It’s Kurt’s autopilot; the door is swinging shut behind him just as his head catches up.

Nothing looks different aside from the clean, fashionable pajama top that Blaine is now dressed in, but that doesn’t stop everything from _feeling_ different. The air feels heavier as Kurt drags himself closer, one foot decidedly in front of the other until he can sit down in his chair.

He doesn’t reach for Blaine’s hand today.

In fact, Kurt doesn’t do anything at all except try very, very hard to not look at Blaine.

So he looks at the bouquet of fake flowers that he has slowly been adding to instead, reminding himself that it’s due for another one. He wonders how hard it would be to make a paper orchid, and then he wonders what Blaine’s favorite flower is. Kurt studies Blaine’s face as if it’ll give him the answer and— _dammit_.

He focuses on the other table, still covered in scattered with books that haven’t moved since Kurt first saw them there. This time he looks a little closer, squinting at the titles. The most worn one is a copy of _Oliver Twist_ , but it’s accompanied with _The Hunger Games_ , _Pride and Prejudice_ , and a well loved copy of _Winnie-the-Pooh_. Kurt finds himself leaning a bit closer, eyebrows furrowed together. These aren’t anything like the books he would have imagined Blaine reading. If anything, it demonstrates that Blaine _likes_ reading, and Kurt can’t help but smile endearingly, reaching out and tracing his finger over the ridge of Blaine’s knuckles—

This is stupid. Kurt is being stupid. So stupid that he’s laughing now, pitching forward and gripping Blaine’s hand as he does so.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasps around his laughter, even though Blaine has no idea what Kurt is sorry about. In fact, he’s not even sure _what_ he’s apologizing for. It might be for the dream, or for the thoughts, or for Kurt’s utter silence since he entered the room. Kurt just knows that he’s _sorry_.

He settles his face on the bed, suddenly exhausted from his own paranoia, and looks up at Blaine.

“You are really, unfairly attractive,” he blurts, blushing immediately. He waits a few moments, he’s not sure what for, before letting out the breath he’d been holding.

“That’s not weird, right? People... People find other people attractive all the time. Complete strangers. Celebrities. It’s _not_ weird.” Blaine probably doesn’t think it’s weird, but maybe he thinks Kurt is a little strange. “I’ve never actually said that out loud to someone before. I’ve never—who would I be able to say that to? Here, in Ohio? Just being myself makes school hard enough, I can’t imagine...”

But that’s what he’d been doing. He had been pursuing Finn, gazing at him with heart eyes, imaging what color they’d paint their living room (a light auburn, Kurt had decided). But then what? He reaches up and touches his shoulder, remembering phantom injuries, and closes his eyes.

“I’ve been telling myself that one day things will be different. I’ll go to New York and I’ll be myself and people will _want_ me. I’ll be allowed to want people and tell them that and not shrink away because at least those guys will be _gay_.” Kurt stops, letting out a slow, rattling breath.

He doesn’t know what it is about this room, or about Blaine. His whole life, he has kept his cool about things. He’s needed to. All of these things are just parts of his life, things he has to accept for now but that he can make better later. _Later_. It’s the one word he has hope in. But now he feels ridiculous, words rushing out of him like some dam has broken inside his brain. Everything, everything, _everything_ tumbles out of him so fast that it blurs together and stops making sense, and Kurt doesn’t know how to stop it now that it’s started.

“It’s because you can’t react. Because you have to sit there and listen and even if you want to hit me, even if you want me to _go away_ , I _can’t_.” His throat tightens at the idea of it. “How’s that for courage? Because I know the moment you open your eyes and you see me, it’ll be over. Maybe I’m just taking what I can get while I have the chance.” He laughs humorlessly, turning his face into the mattress and letting it ground him.

“That—it’s never happened before.” Kurt turns his head again, staring up at Blaine in time to see his nostrils flare just a little bit. _Endearing_.

“I mean, I’ve had _those_ dreams before, I’m just like every _other_ teenage boy, but I’ve never—” His face flushes hot and he can’t even believe he’s talking about this. He’s _never_ talked about this, aside from a horribly awkward conversation with his father when he was thirteen.

“They’ve never been about people I’ve _known_ before.” He swallows, feeling his heart start to race in his chest just thinking about it. It’s not something he’s ever been comfortable thinking or talking about. It’s something for late at night, with his lights off and his eyes closed, just him and his sheets and his ragged breath.

But everything feels too real and too close, with Blaine right there. Kurt can remember the way his hands had felt against him and, _god_ , he can’t help but wonder what they’d really feel like. Hands pressing into his back and fingers threading through his hair and— _okay thinking about those things when Blaine is right in front of you is the opposite of helpful_.

He smiles slightly, burying his face back in the bed sheets.

“When did I turn into such a sexual deviant?”


	14. Chapter 14

The point in time has come where Blaine has crossed from adorably disheveled to possibly homeless. His curls are a tumbling mess on his head and Kurt can’t even imagine having a head of hair like that (it must be a _nightmare_ to control), and his scruff has passed rugged and is heading straight for full on beard.

Although, Kurt has to admit that the scruff has begun to grow on him.

But there’s nothing like a makeover to take Kurt’s mind off _things_.

He isn’t really sure about hospital policy on things like keeping coma patients groomed, but he figures they aren’t very lenient considering he’d had flowers confiscated. Well, it’s just something he’ll have to ask Carole about.

Kurt’s less hesitant as he walks into Blaine’s room. The thoughts and images are still there, burned into his memories as if they really happened. But they didn’t. And if Kurt just blushes a little more every time he sees Blaine, well, it’s not like Blaine can tell.

Best if he just tries to make things as normal as possible. After all, there is absolutely no reason he can’t be friends with Blaine and still find him attractive. Blaine doesn’t need to suffer Kurt’s sudden awkwardness, so Kurt will just have to try and hold a conversation and not think about Blaine’s _hands_ and _chest_ and _mouth_.

He is so not off to a good start. He pauses outside of Blaine’s door, squaring his shoulders as if he’s about to face the entirety of the football team and not an adorable, curly-haired boy in a coma.

It still doesn’t prepare him for the other person in Blaine’s room.

His first thought is that it’s Blaine’s mother and, _oh god_ , what is he going to _do?_ But when his eyes start to work again he sees that it isn’t a woman, but a man. Blaine’s _father?_ That isn’t better _at all_.

But the man is looking at him now and, no, he can’t be Mr. Anderson. He’s way too young, dressed fashionably (not as fashionably as Kurt, but fashionable for Ohio), and is _ridiculously_ attractive.

“Oh hello.” He seems surprised that Kurt is there, which makes sense in a bitter sort of way. Kurt wasn’t a part of Blaine’s life before, and, whoever this guy is, he hasn’t been in the picture since Blaine’s been in the hospital.

“Are you Blaine’s boyfriend?”

Kurt isn’t sure what keeps him standing, but he’s insanely grateful for it.

Boyfriend. _Boyfriend_. Blaine’s _boyfriend_. The word rings around in his head, amplifying until it’s the only word Kurt seems to _know_ anymore. _Boyfriend boyfriend boyfriend_ ** _boyfriend_**. And _wow_ , okay, Kurt really needs to sit down.

He doesn’t.

The shock is beginning to settle, leaving room for the sudden giddiness exploding through him. _Boyfriend_. Blaine is _gay_. Kurt isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry or _both_.

“No,” he says, when he realizes that he’s still being stared at expectantly. “No, I’m. I’m just.” He stops before he says _hospital volunteer._ He could have been Blaine’s boyfriend, if he had wanted to be. Well, _no_ , it’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to be. But he _isn’t_ and this isn’t a Sandra Bullock movie. People just don’t go around and lie about being people in coma’s boyfriends. So he just smiles. “I’m a friend.” The man’s smile softens and, as if suddenly remembering his manners, he stands up from his chair (not _Kurt’s_ chair, but the other one that no one _ever_ uses) and extends a hand over Blaine’s body.

“I’m Cooper, Blaine’s older brother.” Kurt blinks, slightly surprised, and reaches forward to shake Cooper’s hand. So Blaine has a brother.

“Kurt. It’s nice to meet you.” It feels forced as he says it. Is Cooper another family member that gave up on Blaine? Left him for dead? If Kurt wasn’t still reeling from the fact that Blaine is _gay_ , _Blaine is gay_ , he’d be a lot more angry.

They fall into an almost awkward silence as Kurt situates himself in his chair, aware that Cooper’s eyes are following him. They’re blue and Kurt wonders if Blaine’s are, too.

“How often do you come here?”

The question draws Kurt’s attention back to Cooper, and he furrows his eyebrows.

“Every day.” It’s close enough to the truth that Kurt doesn’t elaborate. He watches as the words sink in and as Cooper lowers himself back into the other chair. He’s silent, staring at his brother with eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m from LA,” he says, apropos of nothing. He’s still looking at Blaine, but Kurt gives Cooper his attention. “I moved out there a few years ago to be an actor.”

“Would I have seen you in anything?” He doesn’t look familiar. Cooper just laughs, shaking his head.

“No. I’m still doing small things. Local commercials, extras, anything I can get, really.” Cooper stops as if that’s it, the end of his story, before he reaches forward and carefully tousles a few of Blaine’s curls. “I didn’t know he was in the hospital until about a week and a half ago. I couldn’t afford to come any sooner.”

Kurt notices that, despite being impeccably dressed, Cooper is wrinkled and travel worn. There are bags under his gorgeous eyes, and a slew of coffee cups on the nearest flat surface. _How long has he been here?_

“Thank you,” Cooper says, his voice strained when he finally looks back at Kurt. “For being here. My parents.” He stops, gritting his teeth. “They haven’t exactly been the same since the attack.”

Kurt’s blood runs cold.

He looks at Blaine, all of his injuries faded or hidden beneath clothing and sheets. It was the part of Blaine that Kurt hadn’t let himself think about in detail. Blaine was in the hospital for some reason and, as curious as Kurt had been, there was a part of him that didn’t want to know what that reason was. He didn’t want to know about a car crash or an unfortunate fall. He didn’t want to know what sort of accident had put Blaine there.

Except it wasn’t an accident.

He doesn’t even notice that his arms have wrapped around himself, holding him together. Blaine is _gay_ and he was _attacked_. It isn’t hard for Kurt to put the pieces together.

But he doesn’t ask. He’s too afraid to ask, to know what’s out there. _That could have been me_. Even if fear wasn’t a factor, the look on Cooper’s face would be.

“Did you know,” Cooper starts, voice quiet, and Kurt wonders if he’s going to get the story anyways. He wants to say _no, please, stop_ , terrified of whatever mental pictures it could possibly paint, but then Cooper starts talking again. “That after thirty days, coma patients are considered vegetative.”

Kurt’s back straightens even though he has the sudden urge to curl in on himself. He shakes his head minutely.

“The longer he’s like this...” Cooper doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t have to. Kurt knows how it ends.

“But you haven’t given up.” He doesn’t mean to say it, but the realization blindsides him. He had thought that Blaine’s family had stopped hoping completely, abandoned him when Blaine needed them the most. But Cooper hadn’t and has no intention to.

Cooper looks insulted at first, but then he smiles, just a little bit, and settles a hand on Blaine’s shoulder.

“Of course I haven’t.” He sounds so _sure_ that Kurt feels his fickle hope start to solidify into something real that he can grasp onto. “My brother might be small, but he’s tough. And brave. A lot braver than I’ve ever been.” He pulls his hand away and turns back to Kurt. “He’ll pull through. He always does.”

Kurt doesn’t have any siblings, nor has he ever wanted any. He was the sort of child who basked in his parent’s attention and was content having his mom or dad be his best friend rather than a younger sibling. He never really thought about older siblings. Looking at Cooper and the way he talks about Blaine, the way he thinks of his little brother, Kurt finds himself longing for that sort of relationship.

“I hope so,” Kurt finds himself saying, and Cooper smiles at him. It’s small, but it’s real and relaxed and that counts for something.

They sit in silence for a few moments, Kurt staring down at his thighs and wondering if he should just leave. It feels strange being there when someone Blaine knows and loves is there. The thought hurts more than it should.

“What do you usually do?”

Kurt looks up, eyes curious, to see Cooper looking at him with interested eyes.

“When you visit? What do you usually do?”

His words tumble around in his mouth for a moment as he struggles with coherency.

“I, um. I normally tell him about my day, update him on current gossip and the songs I hear on the radio. Sometimes I just sit and do homework and say things out loud.” Oh god. It sounds so much stranger when he says it to someone else. So Kurt doesn’t mention how sometimes he’ll sing softly, either to voice the tune playing in his head or just because he _wants_ to sing to Blaine.

Cooper is looking at him and Kurt blushes, ducking his head and trying not to wring the hem of his shirt no matter how badly he wants to. It will _wrinkle_.

“I’m glad he has someone like you,” Cooper says after a beat. Kurt blinks at him, confused. “Someone who doesn’t treat him like... Like he’s _gone_ , or _fragile_. You treat him like he’s normal and... Blaine would appreciate it.” He leans forward on his hands, eyes having drifted over to watch his brother’s rhythmic breathing. “I haven’t seen him much in the last few years. He came out to me before he told our parents, and... I wanted to be there for him. He needed me and... I wasn’t.”

Cooper’s breath drags out of him in a long, slow exhale.

“I think he’ll forgive you,” Kurt says, immediately regretting it. He knows nothing about what kind of person Blaine is or what his relationship is like with his older brother. Blaine could hate Cooper and here Kurt is, feeding him false hope. But. The hopeful look on Cooper’s face is worth it. _He doesn’t need more reasons to feel hopeless right now_.

“Yeah,” Cooper whispers, looking at Blaine again. “Yeah.”

Kurt wonders how much Cooper and Blaine are alike. There’s only so much he can gleam from their conversation—how Cooper and Blaine had once been close, how Blaine had needed someone after coming out. Kurt knows he’s lucky. He can’t imagine what his life would be like now if his dad hadn’t just nodded acceptance and said, _I know_.

“I can—You haven’t seen him in a while. I think I should go.” He doesn’t want to. Kurt feels antsy at home these days, like he knows that something is happening somewhere else and he’s _supposed_ to be there. But Cooper immediately shakes his head.

“No, no. Stay. Do what you usually do. If you don’t mind having someone else here?”

Kurt shakes his head, surprised, and Cooper claps his hands and says, “good!”

So Kurt settles, pulling out his homework material and spreading it on the table where his flowers rest in their plastic vase. He blushes, averting his eyes as he produces a paper stargazer lily. He can feel Cooper watching him and steadily avoids looking across at him as he reaches out and takes Blaine’s hand.

It’s not even something he consciously does anymore. Kurt holds Blaine’s hand and that’s simply how it is. When Kurt finally musters up the courage to look up, Cooper is smiling at him again and Kurt smiles back.

He purposefully doesn’t think about all of the potentially tragic things Cooper had hinted at, or the fact that Blaine is _gay_ and that all of Kurt’s premonitions about him being a homophobic asshole have turned to glorious, glorious ash.

Instead he squeezes Blaine’s hand and fishes out his latest addition of People, unable to keep a happy little quirk from the corner of his lips.


	15. Chapter 15

The problem with ignoring something life altering is that, sooner or later, you have to address it.

But Kurt certainly isn’t ready to address it yet.

 _Blaine is gay. Gay. Gay gay gay gay gay_.

Kurt is gay and Blaine is also gay.

Gay.

Kurt tries very hard not to think about it.

He knows that if he thinks about it, it will be all he can think about. It will sink into every crevice of his life until it’s impossible to avoid, and he’s not ready for it. Because Blaine being gay means that Kurt isn’t alone anymore, not the way he had thought he was. It means that there is someone else who _knows_ , who _understands_ in ways that Kurt’s dad or the Glee club never will. The fact that Kurt could have _someone_ like that makes his heart falter because he’s wanted it so badly, for so long.

And now it’s right there. So close. _Too_ close. But still not something he can reach.

Blaine being gay or Blaine being straight means little when Blaine is unconscious.

So Kurt doesn’t think about it to the best of his ability. Instead he works on an essay that isn’t due for three weeks and he reorganizes his closet. He cleans the kitchen, even the normally unreachable gap between the side of the fridge and the wall. He bakes cookies and then cleans the kitchen again, then he rewrites his essay.

It works, for the most part. By the time he goes to bed that night, he’s so exhausted that he isn’t plagued with the kind of self reflection that comes from lying in silence and staring into darkness.

He dreams again. Still vivid and so real that when he wakes up, panting and rutting against his mattress until he’s gasping and coming, he can still feel phantom fingers against his skin. When he comes back down to himself, he groans and flings an arm over his eyes.

Apparently, knowing that real Blaine is gay makes dream Blaine _much_ more experienced.

* * *

Cooper had been a welcome, if not slightly strange, addition to Kurt’s visit the day before. He’d revealed small, little things about Blaine (like how he loves the color red, has always wanted a dog, and never wears his hair naturally curly) and Kurt had listened with rapt attention. But it had derailed him slightly from his original plans, so Kurt had made sure to seek out Carole before he floated home in his stupid Blaine-is-gay haze of happiness.

Apparently, haircuts are permitted as long as there is a staff member present. Carole had been happy to oblige.

So Kurt simply has to pass the time until Carole’s shift starts.

Not thinking about Blaine being gay.

Because _that’s_ sure to go splendidly.

It’s Saturday, the first one Kurt has dared to visit on since he was chased away. But it had been at Carole’s urging that they do the haircut today, and Kurt had discovered some additional courage after his talk with Cooper. Blaine is important to Kurt, and he’s not letting something scare him away again.

For the second day in a row, Kurt isn’t alone when he enters Blaine’s room.

Kurt almost turns on his heel and leaves, but Mrs. Anderson looks up and sees him before he has the chance. Their eyes lock and Kurt knows he can’t leave now. If he leaves now, that’s it; that’s letting her win. And he’s not letting her win again.

Blaine’s copy of _Oliver Twist_ is open in her hands and she’s dressed more comfortably than the last time Kurt had seen her. He wonders how long she’s been there.

With a sigh, she reaches behind her and sets the book down with the others, and Kurt realizes that, unlike last time, she’s sitting in the other chair and not Kurt’s.

“Good afternoon, Kurt,” she says, turning back to him, and he stills in surprise. He isn’t sure if it’s due to the fact that she remembers his name, the fact that she’s actually speaking to him, or how calming and lovely her voice is when it isn’t hollow or hysterical.

“G-good afternoon, Mrs. Anderson.” Kurt wrings his hands together, still barely a few steps through the doorway.

It falls silent and Kurt waits for it. He waits for her to tell him to leave, to yell at him for being there in the first place, but those things don’t come. Mrs. Anderson just watches him and Kurt thanks his thick skin that the stare doesn’t make him fidget.

“Cooper told me about you,” she finally says, her voice still soft, warm and soothing like tea. “How you’ve been coming to see Blaine.” She turns her eyes away from Kurt finally, looking at her son. “I must commend you, for going against what I said. I’m glad that someone was here for Blaine when I was too disillusioned to be.”

Kurt is shocked. If he’d been expecting anything from Mrs. Anderson, it certainly hadn’t been that. He wonders what happened between her and Cooper, what her eldest son had told her to make her realize everything she’d been doing wrong.

“I like the pajamas, by the way.” A small smile touches her lips and her eyes crinkle at the corners, and Kurt can’t help but see someone else there; someone kind and loving and full of life. “Thank you.”

Kurt blushes, fidgeting with embarrassment and casting his eyes around the room. It’s one thing for Carole to know about the pajamas, but Blaine’s _mother?_

 _I am going to die from embarrassment_.

“Won’t you join me?” Mrs. Anderson gestures to the other chair and Kurt can’t even imagine doing anything but moving to sit in it. She reaches over Blaine, offering her hand, and Kurt debates for a moment whether he should do something proper like _kiss the back of it_ or just shake it.

Shaking it seems like the safer bet.

“I’m Grace,” she says as their hands part, and Kurt’s voice finally decides to join the conversation.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He pauses. “Again.” This cracks a smile on her face, an amused lift to the left side of her mouth, but it disappears almost as quickly.

“Yes, I do owe you an apology, don’t I?” Mrs. Anderson—Grace, Kurt corrects himself—looks up through her eyelashes. They remind Kurt strikingly of Blaine’s. Before he can protest, she raises her hand to stop him.

“I really do. I won’t apologize for being surprised, because I was. And as a mother whose youngest son is in a coma, I hope you can understand that much.”

Kurt wants to tell her that he doesn’t hold it against her, not anymore, not after his talk with Carole. But he just nods, surprised at the relief that spreads across her features.

“But I—” She pauses, swallowing as if the words have stuck fast in her throat. “I regret the way I acted, and Cooper, he—He made me realize what I couldn’t see.” She looks at Blaine and smiles, albeit sadly, but it’s a smile nonetheless. “You saw it before I did, and you see it now, more than any of us do.” When she looks at Kurt again, her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “Thank you for having the hope that we were so afraid to have.” 

It’s silent, and Kurt feels so close to tears that he doesn’t even speak. The energy in the room feels charged, as if he’s on the precipice of something terrifying and exciting and entirely unknown. He has the sudden urge to hold his breath.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Kurt blinks rapidly as Grace stares at him, eyes curious but not unkind.

“With everything you no doubt know about my son, you don’t know why he’s here.”

Kurt opens his mouth, but realizes that he has no idea what he wants to say. That he almost typed Blaine’s name into a search engine but thought better of it? That he had tried to find out from Blaine’s nurse surreptitiously? That Kurt could have no doubt asked Cooper but had been too afraid of the answers?

She adjusts herself in her seat, the way one does right before telling a long story.

“I may be time that you do.”

Kurt sits back, shocked and gaping. _Say something_. He knows he should say something. _Say something right now_.

But he can’t.

“Blaine, he... He’s gay.” The word seems to come to her with difficulty and Kurt knows there’s a story there, but it’s not one he’s going to hear today. “He only came out to us a few months ago, I don’t—if he was out at school longer, he didn’t tell us. He didn’t tell us a lot of things, back then.”

She takes a long, slow breath, and Kurt can’t even begin to fathom what telling this story is like for her.

“A little over a month ago, there was a dance at his school.” Her voice breaks. “It was one of those girl-ask-boy ordeals, and Blaine was so... So _adamant_ about going. He had a friend, Jeremy. My husband and I had never met him before, but one day Blaine comes home and tells us that he’s going to take Jeremy to the dance. That it’s only fair that he gets to go with whoever he wants.”

Kurt is staring at Blaine, unable to look at his mother, who is no doubt crying right at this moment.

“We...” Her voice stutters to a halt. “Jeremy’s father took them to the dance. Blaine went straight to Jeremy’s house after school to get ready, I didn’t even...” Kurt listens as she breathes erratically, trying to keep control of herself. “That night, I got a call from the hospital. They didn’t tell me very much, just that Blaine was in a critical condition I came in my robe and tennis shoes. My husband wore sweatpants.” She laughs weakly, like there’s some kind of joke there, and Kurt glances up in time to see her wipe at her eyes.

“The police were there when we arrived. They told us that a teacher had found Blaine in the parking lot with another student, and that they had both been brutally beaten,then abandoned. They asked us so many questions, and I just... I just wanted to see my son.”

Kurt realizes he’s holding Blaine’s hand and doesn’t remember grabbing it, but he’s gripping it tightly as if it will do _something_. _Anything_.

“He had a head injury. The doctor... He said Blaine’s head had been...” Her breath comes out in a long, whimpery stutter. “Had been slammed into the asphalt multiple times.”

“Internal bleeding, three broken ribs, a broken nose, severe bruising,” she listed solemnly. “I didn’t sleep that night, waiting for him to come out of surgery. I found out from the police that he’d taken more of a beating than the other student, than Jeremy, and after Jeremy’s accounts, they deduced that it was because Blaine had been protecting him from the brunt of it.”

Kurt’s heart grows tightly in his chest. There is so much he doesn’t know, but right here is a glimpse into the kind of person Blaine is. _How could anyone ever do this to you?_

“He stabilized. The doctor kept telling us that he was going to be fine, that he would recover. But a day passed, and then two, and then three. Blaine was still responding,then. He would scream in his sleep and I would try to soothe him, but he wouldn’t wake up. They kept telling us that he would.

“Tuesday evening after the dance, he fell into a coma. I was... Hysterical doesn’t even begin to cover it. I hadn’t gone home in days. I sat with him in the ICU every day. I was practically living here. Michael, my husband, he’s the one who decided to move Blaine to this room... More for me than for anything else.”

Kurt wants to ask so much. Wants to ask what happened to Jeremy, Blaine’s father, Blaine’s attackers. But something stops him every time he starts, the words lodging in his throat.

“Days passed and... I stopped staying with him. Every hour that passed was one step closer to losing Blaine forever, and I just... It felt like I’d already lost him.”

The tears are flowing without restraint down her cheeks now, her hands running down the scruff of Blaine’s cheek with all the tenderness and adoration a mother should have for her son.

“It never occurred to me that Blaine could wake up and that I wouldn’t be here. That he could wake up and be _alone_ , after everything else he’s been through.” Her smile wobbles on her face as she turns to look at Kurt, her large, light eyes bright and sincere. “I will never be able to thank you enough.”

Kurt flushes deeply, looking down at where his fingers have laced with Blaine’s. It’s familiar and grounding against everything rattling in his head, an anchor in this situation he never thought he’d find himself in. When he does glance up again, Grace is watching the way he’s holding her son’s hand. She looks surprised, but not upset, and Kurt’s grateful for that, at least.

“You don’t have to, you know.”

Grace’s eyebrows raise, questioningly.

“Thank me, I mean. I... I’m here because I want to be.” His cheeks are flaming with embarrassment, because is he really saying this to Blaine’s _mother_ of all people?

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and sees Grace’s hand resting on Blaine’s stomach, palm up. He looks at it hesitantly before setting his free hand in hers. Her skin is soft and smooth, the same warm color as Blaine’s, and she grips his hand.

“All the more reason to thank you.” She smiles softly at him.

“I...” Kurt swallows, licking his lips before meeting her eyes. “I should be thanking you. For telling me about Blaine.” He squeezes the prone fingers laced with his.

“You care about my son,” Grace says evenly. “And right now, he needs people who care about him.”

It’s almost like permission. Permission for Kurt to keep seeing Blaine without guilt, because if his mother understands, why should it matter if no one else does?

Her shoulders perk up so suddenly that it almost startles him, and she squeezes his hand.

“You looked so happy coming in here, earlier. I apologize for making the mood so sombre.”

It makes Kurt want to laugh, as if sitting in a room with a coma patient is ever _not_ sombre. But, thinking back on his time spent by Blaine’s hospital bed, Kurt can’t think of ever feeling sad for the right reasons. He’d come in upset over everything, from school, to Finn, to his dad, to losing the eBay auction for the Marc Jacobs jacket, but Kurt has never been sad because Blaine is in a coma.

Blaine has always seemed to be right there with Kurt, even though he hasn’t.

“You didn’t.” Well, she sort of has, but what is he supposed to say to that?

“I did, but that’s okay.”

This woman certainly keeps surprising him. Kurt can’t help but wonder how much of who Blaine is comes from his mom.

“Tell me about yourself, Kurt.” She finally lets go of his hand, shifting to sit primly, way a lady is taught. Or in a way that Kurt often tries to emulate.

“Um.” _Where does he even start?_

“Why were you in such good spirits today? I can’t quite believe it’s due to my son’s company.”

 _It is_.

But, apparently, that is something that Kurt isn’t supposed to admit out loud.

“Actually, um, Blaine’s nurse—”

“Nurse Hudson?”

“Carole,” Kurt corrects almost immediately, gaining another look of surprise from Mrs. Anderson. He has to wonder how much about him is catching her off guard.

“Carole, then,” Grace relents, gesturing with a graceful wave of her hand for Kurt to continue.

“Well, she... Gave me permission to cut Blaine’s hair.”

This time Grace really smiles. It’s more amused than sad, crinkling her eyes and revealing a dimple in her right cheek. It makes Kurt want to smile. She reaches for Blaine’s hair, grabbing a few curls and smoothing them between her fingers softly.

“That sounds like an excellent idea.”


	16. Chapter 16

“I think it’s the most activity that’s been in Blaine’s room, ever. I’m sure that if we hadn’t had Carole on our side, we would have gotten kicked out.”

Kurt places a slice of turkey on his dad’s plate as he talks, shifting easily to the mashed potatoes afterwards.

“It’s so strange, because you don’t really think of people laughing in a coma patient’s room, but Cooper—”

“Which one’s Cooper again?”

Kurt settles into his chair and meets Burt’s confused look.

“That’s Blaine’s older brother. Anyways, Cooper seemed intent on keeping the atmosphere up. I think that was good for Grace—Mrs. Anderson,” Kurt clarifies, when he sees his dad open his mouth to ask a question. “It’s obvious this is all still very hard for her, but I think Cooper being there helped.”

“I see...”

“I think Carole helped, too. She’s really a fantastic nurse, you know? She really seemed to put Grace at ease during the whole thing, and of course she supervised while I cut Blaine’s hair.”

“You did _what_ now?”

“Cut Blaine’s hair. Ugh, you should have _seen_ him, dad. He looked like a chia pet. Grace was actually very flattering in her compliments about it, but Cooper seemed to keep teasing Blaine despite the fact that he’s _in a coma_ —”

“Kurt.”

Kurt pauses, mouth still open mid-sentence, but when he sees the look on Burt’s face,he promptly shuts it.

“That’s... Great. I’m so glad you’re spending time with Carole, getting to know her better. It makes me happy that you like her so much.” Kurt beams at his father. “But, you... You’ve been spending a _lot_ of time at the hospital. Have you been hanging out with your real friends at all?”

The smile falls from Kurt’s face.

“Blaine is a real friend,” he says quietly.

“Kurt, you know that’s not what I meant—”

“There aren’t a lot of ways to take that, dad.”

“Buddy, no, hey, look at me.”

Kurt hadn’t even realized he’d been averting his eyes, so he glances up from the table to look at his dad.

“I meant, when was the last time you hung out with Mercedes? Or Tina? I haven’t seen them these last couple of weeks.”

“I see them at school.”

“So you just have no social life outside of school anymore?”

Kurt grips his fork tightly.

“I _do_ —”

“Hanging out at a hospital isn’t a social life, Kurt.”

Kurt jerks back as if he’s been slapped, and he stares at his plate with wide eyes.

“Look, I’m just worried about you. You seem happier, I’ll give you that, but it’s not normal—”

“Well, news flash, dad! I’m not normal.” Kurt’s plate clatters against the table as he stands up. “I’ve _never_ been normal, and I’m sorry—”

“Kurt—”

“I’ll just go _not_ be normal somewhere else.”

“Kurt, you hardly touched your dinner.”

“I lost my appetite.”

His eyes sting as he heads for the basement, slamming the door behind him. Hopefully that will be enough to convince his dad to leave him alone; Kurt doesn’t have the luxury of a lock on his bedroom door.

As he lags through his skin routine, he feels himself calm down, but the idea of talking to his dad still isn’t appealing. It’s early, but he shuts off his light and climbs into bed anyway, resolutely staring at the ceiling and wishing he could sleep.

He’s almost there when he hears the door crack open and his dad’s heavy footsteps down the stairs.

“Kurt? You asleep?”

He isn’t, but he keeps quiet. Kurt hears his dad settle on one of the stairs, but doesn’t chance looking at him.

“Look, you’re my son and you know I love you. And yeah, we don’t see everything eye to eye, but I don’t think any parent is supposed to get their kid like that. I think that’s one of the challenges of parenthood.” Burt pauses, and Kurt can imagine him taking off his hat and wringing it in his hands.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, but it’s my job as your dad to look out for you. I’m sure this Blaine is a good kid, but the thing is that he’s a stranger no matter how well you think you know him.” A sigh. “All I’m saying is that you’ve never even spoken to this guy. Heck, he probably doesn’t even know you exist.”

Kurt feels like he stops _breathing_.

Burt falls quiet again and Kurt can hear the stairs creak as he stands and heads back up.

“Love you, buddy.”

The door closes, and Kurt turns on his side, blinking back tears.

Kurt always knew it was a possibility. There is nothing that says for sure that coma patients are aware of what’s going on around them while they’re under. But that hasn’t stopped Kurt from wanting Blaine to hear him, wanting Blaine to know everything that Kurt has told him over the last four weeks. If Blaine wakes up and he—

No. _No_. Blaine _has_ to know Kurt.

He _has_ to.

* * *

It doesn’t even occur to Kurt that he’s skipped Cheerios practice until he’s pulling into the hospital parking garage. In fact, chances are he wouldn’t have even known if he hadn’t seen the text from Mercedes (a _WHERE ARE YOU?!?!?!?!_ ). He looks at it for a few moments before shutting his phone off without a second thought.

After his rather eventful weekend at the hospital, Kurt feels a strange giddiness walking towards Blaine’s room. Saturday night, it had been a good, excited energy. But now, after what his dad had said the night before, it feels almost nervous. It’s almost as if Kurt expects to walk in and see Blaine with his eyes open, looking at Kurt as if he’s never seen him before in his life.

Kurt swallows.

But Blaine is as he has been, albeit with a much tamer head of curls. Kurt can tell that someone else has been there; Cooper, most likely, given the fact that _Winnie-the-Pooh_ has been left open and there are three empty coffee cups stacked within each other.

Rolling his eyes, Kurt cleans up first, but he has a hard time finding the energy to be annoyed. After all, it’s signs that someone else has been to see Blaine, and that fact alone makes Kurt want to smile.

With that settled, he pulls out the two flowers he managed to make the day before.

“Today I present you with a glorious white magnolia and a rainbow of poppies.” Really, it’s beginning to look quite impressive in that tiny, plastic vase. It’s a complete mess, given all the different kind of flowers, but it’s a beautiful sort of chaos. “Well, by rainbow I mean the first three colors, but I’m sure you’re not picky.” He arranges them until he’s satisfied before he settles into the familiar feeling of his chair.

And then he draws a blank.

He’s looking at Blaine and it’s like right after _The Dream_ , except there’s really no reason for Kurt to feel so self conscious this time.

Is there?

“Ugh, this is _ridiculous_ ,” he groans, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. Everything would be fine if Kurt hadn’t gotten into that stupid argument with his dad the night before. Then Kurt could just talk about everything, like he usually does, and feel excited about ridding Blaine of his mountain-man appearance.

He takes a few breaths and then looks back at Blaine.

“This isn’t normal, is it?” Kurt asks quietly, tilting his head to the side. It’s not as if Blaine will answer him, and while Kurt had accepted that some time ago, a part of him is still hoping Blaine _will_. His hand finds Blaine’s automatically, finding comfort in its warmth and solidity.

Kurt knows Blaine, more so now than even a few days ago. He knows that Blaine has an adorable obsession with Winnie the Pooh, even at the age of fifteen (and fifteen year old boys should _not_ be able to grow that much facial hair, it’s not _fair_ ). He knows that Blaine loves to laugh and to sing. He knows that Blaine fell off his bike when he was seven and has a scar on the back of his knee because of it.

Grace and Cooper hadn’t felt strange sitting there and talking about Blaine, telling stories about him and filling Kurt in on things he didn’t know. How Blaine _hates_ wearing his hair curly (Kurt has _no_ idea why) or how he’d seen _The Princess and the Frog_ in theaters four times and spent a solid month singing the songs out loud as often as possible. Some of the stories were for Cooper’s benefit too. Kurt could tell by the way he would suddenly watch his mother attentively. Like how Blaine had made his mother heart shaped pancakes for Valentine’s Day (he’d burnt them, but Grace had still eaten them) and how he’d tried to hide a stray cat in his room that past summer because he’d felt so bad for it.

They were the sorts of stories that had made Kurt curl up in his chair and just listen, eyes straying from Blaine’s family to Blaine himself. Because _yes_ , of _course_ Kurt knows Blaine. There is no way he could ever consider Blaine a stranger now.

But that doesn’t stop the nagging in the back of his mind, the echo of his father’s voice: _he probably doesn’t even know you exist_.

Kurt sighs, leaning forward until he can run his free hand through Blaine’s curls. _Please_ , he thinks, but he isn’t even sure what he’s asking for.

The sound of the door opening jolts him out of his reverie, and he draws his hands into his lap as quickly as possible.

“Hello, sweetie,” Carole says with a smile as she strides in. She’s carrying an armful of folders, and Kurt can tell by the state of her hair that she’s been there for a few hours already.

“Shaving today, right?” She asks before Kurt can manage a greeting back. He nods and she shifts around the jumble in her arms before setting down an electric razor.

“It’s hospital policy,” Carole says to Kurt’s inquisitive eyebrow raise. “But the good thing is that you don’t need me hovering over you while you use it.” She smiles at him, shifting the stuff around in her arms again. “Just don’t do anything rash, like shave off one of Blaine’s eyebrows.”

Kurt huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.

“Tempting, but I think his mother would kill me.” Besides, Blaine’s eyebrows have grown on him. They’re charming in their own right.

“Did you need anything else, honey?”

Kurt isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to Carole’s affinity for pet names, but at least it’s in a pleasant way.

“No, I brought everything else I’d need. Thank you, Carole.” They share a smile and then she’s gone.

Shaving is something Burt had taught Kurt how to do right at the beginning of puberty, before either of them knew that Kurt’s facial hair—while existent—didn’t require as much maintenance as most teenage boys. But that had been with a regular, run-of-the-mill razor. Using an electric one can’t be that different, right?

After all, the hospital wouldn’t allow electric razors, either, if they thought they were dangerous.

Despite the fact that the whole process involves Kurt bringing blades against another person’s skin, it’s a lot less nerve-wracking than cutting Blaine’s hair had been. It’s slow and methodical, warm water and oil and the steady hum of the razor.

It’s a task that involves Kurt invading Blaine’s personal space, more so than at any other time he’d had the opportunity to touch. His fingers linger longer than they should when they pull the skin of Blaine’s cheek taut, fleeting across the hardness of Blaine’s jaw and past his ear, until Kurt’s hand is curving around the back of Blaine’s neck.

Kurt tilts Blaine’s head back, moving the razor carefully along Blaine’s throat and trying not to think about the feel of the curls looped around his fingers. He’s so close, he swears he can feel the heat radiating off of Blaine’s skin.

When he’s done, he pulls back just far enough to survey his work, grasping Blaine’s chin until his face is angled towards Kurt.

“There.” Kurt smiles, filled with a small sense of accomplishment. It’s not the best shave in the world, but it’s the best he can do given the circumstances. “Don’t you look handsome.” His fingers smooth gently along Blaine’s throat and jaw until Kurt finds himself cupping Blaine’s face in his hands.

He’s never been this close before. So close that he can see the individual eyelashes fanned across Blaine’s cheek and the lightest betrayal of freckles, so few Kurt can count them, that are normally hidden in Blaine’s complexion. Kurt’s _too_ close, and he knows that he is, but he doesn’t pull away. His fingers move, feeling the sharpness of Blaine’s cheekbones and the way his nose slopes.

It isn’t until Kurt’s thumb swipes across Blaine’s lower lip that he jolts back, nearly colliding with his chair.

_What am I doing?_


	17. Chapter 17

Kurt doesn’t need to hear the scathing message in his voicemail to know that he’s been “removed” from the Cheerios (and how Coach Sylvester got his cell phone number he’ll _never_ know). He comes into McKinley early Tuesday morning, returns the uniform, clean and folded, and revels in the ability to wear his own clothing at school again. Even if it probably restores him as a target for slushies—it’s best not to think about that.

It should probably upset him more than it does, but if Kurt’s being honest with himself, he hasn’t really been present at school lately. That isn’t to say he’s become a slacker, because Kurt Hummel will shop at _Old Navy_ before that happens, but school is not a part of his day that he deems worthy of acknowledging anymore.

Everything has just turned into a blur. Classes. Cheerios. Glee. A part of Kurt knows that he shouldn’t be living for the hospital, for Blaine, the way he is, but a bigger part of him loves it. Loves that he _has_ something to look forward to every day.

It’s lunch time when a hand lands on his shoulder and he nearly veers into the closest wall of lockers.

“Dude, chill, it’s me.”

 _Finn_.

Kurt closes his eyes, taking a few breaths to calm himself down, before he turns to look at Finn.

“Can I help you, Finn Hudson?” Breezy, aloof, everything that Kurt Hummel is and will be to the student body of McKinley.

“Uh, yeah, yeah you can.” The hostility in Finn’s tone takes Kurt by surprise, causing him to draw back slightly. “What is going on with you and my mom, dude?”

“Excuse me?”

“My mom. She, like, can’t stop talking about you and it’s starting to weird me out.”

Kurt resists the urge to ask, ‘ _what does she say?_ ’

“Well, I do volunteer at the hospital she works at, Finn, and she’s dating my dad, so it’s not—”

“You guys like, hang out and stuff!”

“Yeah, and?” Kurt furrows his eyebrows, confused at the fact that Finn is actually _raising his voice_ during this conversation. Kurt and Carole have been friends for a few weeks now. Why is Finn bringing this up _now?_

“And it’s... It’s weird, okay? People aren’t friends with other people’s parents, dude.” Finn hunches in on himself slightly, looking around as if the conversation has suddenly made him uncomfortable. It makes Kurt want to roll his eyes; if he doesn’t want to talk about it, why did he bring it up in the first place?

“Well, Carole and I _are_ , so if you’ll—”

“Well, I don’t like it, okay?” Finn shoots a glare at him, causing Kurt to draw back again. “Every time my mom and I have dinner, she talks about you and what you guys did at the hospital and how you’re going shopping—”

Kurt can’t believe what he’s hearing. It hadn’t occurred to him, before, when he was having all his insecurities about the relationship forming between his dad and Finn, that Finn could have similar feelings. And now, here’s proof of it.

Finn is _jealous_ of him.

“—my mom isn’t home for a lot of dinners, and it kind of sucks when she spends the whole time talking about you and some kid named Blaine—”

Kurt feels a sudden surge of anger.

“—all she says is that he’s a patient, he’s a patient, and I’m tired of being left out of my mom’s life, dude, it’s not cool. So I would appreciate it if you and this _Blaine_ would just—”

“ **Finn**.” There’s a hard edge to Kurt’s voice that makes Finn stop mid-sentence. Kurt can actually see the shock register on Finn’s face when he realizes that Kurt is glaring at him.

“As long as Carole works at the hospital, she and I _will_ be interacting. She and I _will_ be friends. I understand where you’re coming from, really, I do, but maybe instead of bitching at me about it, you should talk to her about it.” He sets his teeth and, for the first time in Kurt’s _life_ , someone takes a step back from him.

“And if you _ever_ mention Blaine again, so help you _god_ , Finn Hudson.” Kurt squares his shoulders, adjusts his bag, and sets Finn with one more haughty look before maneuvering around him and continuing on his way down the hall.

It isn’t until Kurt turns a corner that he realizes exactly what he’s just done. Kurt has pride, of course, and he can concentrate all of his judgement into a single hard glance, but this is different. This is him not backing down when he was asked to. This is him standing up for himself in a way he just hasn’t before.

It makes him want to stand a little taller, hold his head a little higher. It gives him a sense of empowerment he’s not used to having at school, and for once he feels like he can walk down the hall without fearing what waits for him around the corner.

* * *

When Kurt enters Glee club that afternoon, there is an immediate tension in the atmosphere. Heads turn when he enters the room and suddenly every eye is on him, causing him to stop immediately in the doorway.

“What?” He asks, gripping the strap of his bag tightly. No one answers him.

“Does someone want to tell me what’s going on?” He shifts his weight, nerves creeping up on him. Did something bad happen? “Is everyone okay? Did something happen? Oh god, did someone die?” The idea makes his heart rate pick up, makes his stomach twist unpleasantly, but no, _no_ , they don’t know Blaine. If something—no, he needs to stop. Blaine is fine.

“No, Kurt, no one’s dead.” Mercedes stands up and walks over to him and Kurt feels a sudden wave of guilt wash over to him. He hasn’t been fair to Mercedes lately; she’s his friend, and she’s been supportive, and after everything with Finn in the hallway earlier, he could really use—

“I told them about what’s been going on with Blaine.”

“...you _what?_ ”

Mercedes eyes widen at the amount of venom in Kurt’s voice, and she steps towards him, reaching out to place a hand on his arm, but he draws back.

“I told them what you’ve been up to the last couple of weeks, Kurt. I’m really worried about you.”

First his dad, and then Finn, and now Mercedes, too? Kurt feels as if he’s been pressed into a corner.

“I’m just volunteering,” he says through his teeth. Mercedes sighs, shaking her head as if she’s disappointed with him. Kurt rocks back a step.

“Now Kurt, while volunteering is a completely honorable extracurricular, it’s been exceedingly obvious that you’ve been acting different lately,” Rachel says, standing and taking a few steps towards him. Another wall. “As co-captain of Glee club , it is my responsibility to make sure that we remain focused. Regionals is approaching and it is simply unacceptable for you to be so distracted by some _boy_.”

“You kept skipping Cheerios practice, too, Kurt,” Mercedes points out.

“I want to know about this boy-toy of Hummel’s. Did Lady finally find someone to get his gay on with?” Santana says from the back of the choir room with a grin. Kurt’s fists clench.

“Dude, that’s sick. Isn’t he like paralyzed or something?”

“Being in a coma isn’t the same thing as being paralyzed, Puck.”

“Hey, he can’t get it up either way.”

“Can we—” Kurt starts, but is immediately drowned out.

“Wait, Kurt’s boyfriend is a punctuation mark? That is so sad.”

“He’s not—”

“What do you even know about this boy, Kurt? He could be dangerous. What if he’s in a coma because he’s in a _gang?_ ”

“What? That’s—”

“Woah, not cool, I do not want my mom helping out some guy in a gang.”

“He’s in a coma, Finn, it’s not like he’s dangerous right now.”

“So wait, this guy is like, asleep? That’s desperate even for you, Hummel.”

“Stop it!”

The club falls silent again, looking at him in surprise.

“Why do any of you even _care?_ ” Kurt crosses his arms, looking away from all of them.

“Kurt—” It’s Tina. Kurt looks over at her and shakes his head.

“While I _appreciate_ your so-called concern, I don’t see why it matters to any of you. It’s not like it ever has before. What exactly has changed? I still come to Glee, I still sit here every afternoon, I still sing in the background. So what, now that I’m happier you all have something to say about it?”

Kurt can feel his throat constricting, but he _won’t_ cry. He _won’t_.

“My life isn’t open to public forum. I never _asked_ for any of your opinions. I went to someone I trusted and confided in them, but I obviously made a mistake.” He looks at Mercedes, at the way hurt is registering on her face, before he closes his eyes. As if she has any right to feel hurt right now.

“So I would appreciate it if all of you would just stop. Because it’s my life and none of you know a single thing about it or about me. None of you know the situation I’m in right now. None of you know Blaine. And maybe I don’t know him either, but I have a lot more in common with him than I do with any of you.”

He turns around, taking a deep breath, when he hears Mercedes softly say his name.

“Just. Stop.” He closes his eyes and doesn’t look back.

The anger in his veins pushes him forward, makes him walk faster and faster until he’s practically running to his car. Glee used to be his safe space. It used to be the one place in the world where he could be himself.

But not anymore.

Now there’s somewhere new, somewhere he can shed his armor completely and breathe. And right at that moment he needs to be there more than anything else.

 _Blaine_.


	18. Chapter 18

There have been many times over the last month when Kurt has gone to the hospital for solace. It’s not exactly something he likes to admit—that he’s been using Blaine’s hospital room as an escape from everything else in his life. But that’s exactly what he’s been doing.

Today, though, it’s different. Despite the fact that Kurt feels as if the rest of the world is pushing in on him, that isn’t what’s driving him to Lima Memorial.

Rather, it’s the fact that _Blaine_ is there that’s pulling him in.

He keeps it together as well as he can until Blaine’s door is closing heavily behind him. It’s as if that signifying click is a trigger, a word of compliance, because that one sound is all it takes to have Kurt falling to pieces.

“Why doesn’t anyone understand?” Kurt grips his arms, tugging his jacket closer to him as if it will become a piece of armor. He feels so raw and stripped down, so open to absolutely everything and he _hates_ it. Closing his eyes, he tries to keep himself from crying, tries to breathe and collect himself but it just isn’t working this time.

He turns then, looking at Blaine and moving quickly to his bedside. Kurt’s looking for something, he knows he is, but it isn’t something he’s going to find here. Not this time. A hiccup escapes him and he drops heavily into his chair, burying his face in his hands and breathing, breathing, trying to keep the cracks from growing.

“Before this year it—” He swallows, arms collapsing against his knees as he blinks back tears. “It was always just me. Every single day. To people at school, I didn’t even have a _name_. I was an easy target and that’s it. No matter how hard I... I tried to be someone, tried to be _me_ , it didn’t _matter_.” Kurt rubs furiously at his eyes. He doesn’t know why he just doesn’t let the tears fall; no one is there to see them.

“Glee was... It was supposed to be _different_. I wasn’t supposed to be alone anymore. And I made friends, I had something to look forward to at school, but I just...” His breathing starts becoming erratic and he doesn’t try to calm himself down again. “I was surrounded by all of these people, people I considered my _best friends_ , and I still felt so invisible.”

To a degree, Kurt can understand it. After being treated differently for almost his entire life, Kurt has built a shell around himself. Layers and layers of protection, keeping people out and keeping himself from getting hurt. So maybe they didn't think that Kurt needed the attention, that he _wanted_ people to get past the armor he'd so tediously built.

But maybe he hadn't known that about himself, either.

"I've never needed anyone before," he whispers. His fingers twitch against his sides and it's then that he realizes he's folded in on himself, arms tight around his waist—holding the armor together.

He wilts, sinking further into the chair. It seems pointless now, trying to keep up the façade he's been building for so many years. It seems especially pointless here, with Blaine.

Kurt moves to the edge of his chair, reaching up to finally lace his fingers with Blaine's the way he's wanted to since he left the choir room.

"So why do I need you?"

_Because he's everything that none of them can be_.

He smiles dryly to himself at that, looking at their clasped hands and remembering how, before Blaine, he'd never really held hands with a boy before. Not like this.

"It's… Pathetic, I guess, but no one has ever really… Been there for me, not the way you have." Kurt squeezes Blaine's hand. "My dad, he tried… He still tries, sometimes, but I know that he's as lost as I am about… About _everything_. And maybe I don't need someone to _help_ , maybe I'm not looking for _advice_ , maybe I just want someone to… To _listen_ to me. To _understand_ what I'm saying." His breath hitches and he closes his eyes. "To understand _me_."

In fact, Kurt is sure that's all he's ever wanted.

"And maybe, _maybe_ I finally have that." He looks at Blaine again, at his impassive face and hoping to see something there. "I know it's not… We're not." Kurt swallows. "I know this isn't exactly routine, that this isn't how things are _supposed_ to go. But this is what I have, _you_ are what I have, so can't people just accept that? Accept _us?_ Can't they let me have this one thing?"

_Can't they let me have you?_

Kurt digs the heel of his free hand to his forehead, closing his eyes in frustration.

"Except… What if they're _right_?" He asks, desperately. "What if… No, it is. This is _crazy_. I don't… I know you're not a bad person. I _know_ that. But we've never even…" Kurt rubs at his eyes, breathing harshly. "I don't know what you look like when you smile." His voice breaks. "I don't know what color your eyes are, or what your laugh sounds like, or what it would be like to hold your hand and have you hold it _back_."

He feels the moisture in his eyes, trying to blink it back. But it's building too quickly for him to control anymore.

"And it's crazy and ridiculous and…"

_What I look forward to every day_.

"And…"

_I can't remember the last time I felt this happy_.

"And…"

_You're_ ** _everything_**.

"…I think about you all the time." Kurt closes his eyes and can feel the tears escaping. " _All the time_ , Blaine. I… I wonder about you, what you're _like_ , what we'll talk about." _The jokes you'll make, the ways we'll tease each other, the silly things we'll fight about_. "When I'm not here, all I think about is _being_ here. Because I want to be here… I _always_ want to be here." He admits it so quietly, as if the reality of it just solidified within him.

"I… I just want to sit here, and talk to you, and _see_ you, and just… Just be _here_ because I _want_ to be here for you, Blaine. I will _always_ be here for you," he promises fiercely. "And… And maybe this _isn't_ normal. I don't think it could _ever_ be considered normal, but… When have I ever done things the easy way? When have I ever done things that _anyone_ considered normal?"

_I'll just go_ ** _not_** _be normal somewhere else_. The fight with his dad echoes in his head and he can't help but smile even as the tears stream steadily down his cheeks.

"So, if this isn't normal, then… Then okay." He's quiet, staring at their joined hands. "If… If _feeling_ this way isn't normal, then okay."

Kurt lifts their joined hands, moving them to the side of his face before tentatively touching the back of Blaine's hand to his cheek. The contact makes him let out a shaky breath, and he closes his eyes.

"Is it even possible to fall in love with someone before you've met them?"

_Love_.

Opening his eyes, Kurt stares at Blaine again as if he's _really_ seeing him. It aches deep inside of him, like his heart becomes whole and then falls apart all over again. He gasps at the shock of it, leaning forward until he has his arms draped on the bed. A sob forces its way out of his throat and he closes his eyes, tries to stop crying, when did he start crying this hard?

"I want to meet you," he cries, his voice thin and wavering, clogged with tears and much too sudden heartbreak. "I want to meet you so badly. You have to wake up, so we can meet." He focuses on Blaine's face, waiting, waiting, but nothing happens.

"Please wake up." His voice becomes higher, desperate. "You need to wake up, Blaine. I-I need you to open your eyes, okay? You need to… You need to open your eyes and _look_ at me."

Blaine's eyes don't even flutter.

" _Please_. Please, open your eyes and look at me and be real. You have to be real, Blaine. You have to… You _have_ to be, I can't—I _need_ you. _Please_ open your eyes." He squeezes Blaine's hand tightly, his other hand curling around Blaine's arm.

"You're not… You have to be real, because you're _not_ right now. Right now you're a dream. You're the best dream I've ever had." He lets out another sob, a wail that is amplified by the empty hospital room. "You need to wake up, you need to be real, _please_."

Kurt leans forward on the bed, pressing his forehead against the softness of Blaine's stomach. He holds his hand so tightly that it _hurts_ , but he can't let go, he _can't_.

" _Please_ , please wake up, you have to wake up. _Please_. Please, Blaine, _please_ open your eyes, _please_ ," he chants, crying in earnest. Blaine's body is warm, his breathing steady, but he doesn't move, doesn't stir.

Kurt cries. He cries and he pleads until his voice is hoarse and he doesn't have tears, until the only thing left in the room is the sound of machines and his harsh breathing. His eyes are heavy and his face is stiff, his hair limp and his shirt wrinkled. But for once he can't even think to care about it.

He feels so weak he thinks he might collapse from the effort of standing, but it's getting dark. If he doesn't leave soon, a nurse will _make_ him. And being forced away from Blaine _now_ … Kurt doesn't think he'd survive it.

No, he has to leave on his terms, knowing that he'll come back as soon as he can. Every day, for as long as he has to.

He doesn't let go of Blaine's hand, standing there silently. Kurt cups Blaine's face with his palm, practically holding his breath as he waits, _please_ , for something to happen.

When it doesn't, he closes his eyes, leans down, and presses his lips to Blaine's forehead. Kurt lingers, breathing and _hoping, wishing, willing_. He pulls back slowly, pushes a curl back from Blaine's face, and leaves.

* * *

Kurt almost doesn’t go to school the next day.

Everything just seems so... _Empty_. Sound rushes past his ears like white noise, and everything he sees seems to blur in and out of focus. He feels dead on his feet, probably _looks_ it, and if he wanted to stay home he probably could have. But at this point in time, staying at home is almost as bad as going to school.

All morning, it’s a game of cat and mouse as people from Glee club try to approach him. Kurt manages to muster the ability to feel annoyed by it, but he works around it. He can’t deal with the kids from Glee today, with his _friends_. Not today. So he carries his things with him, a weight that keeps him grounded when he feels so hollow, like he might float away. 

He’s tired, he’s _so_ tired; his eyes, and his heart, ache.

What he wants to do is sleep.

What he really wants to do is see Blaine.

It’s right after lunch, as he sits in his World History class and debates whether or not the teacher will notice if he falls asleep, that he sees movement just outside the open classroom door. At first he ignores it, but the little buzz in his peripheral vision won’t seem to stop bothering him. When Kurt does look, he’s surprised to see that the disturbance is _Finn_ of all people. He looks bizarrely antsy, like he has to go to the bathroom or something.

Kurt looks at him with dull eyes, blinking owlishly, and just shakes his head, turning back towards the teacher and her lecture. Except that Finn is _still_ there and his bouncing only becomes _more_ agitated. Kurt sighs, looking up and muttering to himself, before his attention goes back to Finn. But rather than hopping from foot to foot, Finn is holding up a phone and pointing at it furiously.

“May I use the restroom?” Kurt says as he raises his hand, and the teacher just shoos him away. He’s out the door in moments, grabbing Finn by the arm and dragging him down the hall and away from the classroom.

“What?” Kurt hisses, turning on him and crossing his arms. He is _so_ not in the mood for this. But rather than saying anything, Finn thrusts the phone in his direction. “Um, yes, that is a phone.”

“It’s my mom,” Finn whispers, and Kurt’s eyebrows furrow. Weird. Carole’s never called him before. He takes the phone from Finn tentatively, holding it up to his ear.

“Hello?”

There’s a lot of noise on the other end of the line and he can hear Carole’s voice, shouting something at somebody on her end. She must be at the hospital.

“Kurt?” She yells too loudly into the phone and Kurt jerks away from it slightly.

“Yes—”

“It’s Blaine.”

Everything stops. His heart, his breath, absolutely everything. Kurt’s never been a subscriber to the idea that sometimes it feels like things are in slow motion, but now he’s right in one of those moments. The stillness is swallowing him up, hours and hours of it, until a shuddering breath breaks it.

“Blaine’s awake.”


	19. Chapter 19

"It's time to go."

Blaine stares at the man. He doesn't know him, but his voice is soothing, comforting. Blaine would trust him, except that he can't see his face.

"I have to get off the train?" Blaine grips the armrests of his seat. The man nods. "Why do you wear that sheet on your head?" Blaine asks, desperately, and the man shakes his head.

"I don't," the man simply says, and that's when the noises start. Loud, horrible noises. Blaine covers his ears.

"Can you make them stop?" he yells, but the man shakes his head.

"You don't want them to stop."

The train is jerking, swerving, and Blaine feels nauseated.

"Yes, yes I do. Make it stop! Make it stop!"

"This _is_ your stop." The man walks away, disappearing through a curtain. Blaine stands up, looking around, but he's wearing his pajamas, he doesn't need to bring them with him. He puts on his hat and runs after the man, but when he goes through the curtain, he stumbles.

It's white.

Why is it so white? He closes his eyes, shying away from it, but it's still white. Everything is white.

It blares at him and he throws his head around desperately, but he can't remember what he's looking for. What is he looking for? Where was he? Where is he? Why can't he ask anyone? Why is no one there?

 _Help, help, help_.

His throat isn't working.

He opens his eyes again, wincing against the white, but it fades, gradually, until—

A ceiling. He can see a ceiling. It's blurry and it's white, but it's not _white_. His room? Wait, no, how is he in his room? Where is he? Where was he? What happened?

There's a buzzing noise and he wants it to stop, _why won't it stop_ , and he can't cover his ears. Why can't he move? Why isn't anyone telling him what's going on? Where is his mom? His dad? Jeremy?

 _Jeremy. The dance. The parking lot_.

Blaine is staring straight up ( _how do I turn my head? Why can't I remember?_ ) and he's glad he can't move, glad that he's trapped underwater ( _when did I get underwater?_ ) because _what happened?_

His mom.

She's there, right there, right above him. And she's crying, she's crying harder than he's ever seen her cry. Harder than when he jumped off the tire swing and sprained his ankle. Harder than when Cooper left for college.

 _No, no mom, don't cry, no_.

Why can't he _talk?_

"Blaine, Blaine, Blaine, oh my baby boy."

His mom must be underwater, too. He can hardly hear her, but she's touching his face, stroking his cheeks, and he closes his eyes at the feeling.

"Look at me, look at me."

He does, staring up at her and she's crying and smiling and then Blaine is crying.

"It's okay, it's okay. I've got you, I've got you. You're okay."

 _I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay_.

_Why?_

* * *

He can't move, he can't move because _how do people move?_ but he can _feel_. Can people forget how to feel?

_Did I forget?_

His mom keeps crying. Not as hard. But every time he sees her face, there are tears in her eyes. There are other faces, too, strange faces.

They aren’t covered with sheets.

But why would they be?

Blaine feels very tired. And no one will tell him anything, no one is answering his questions. He can't ask questions. But they should answer them.

His mom doesn't like it when he closes his eyes, so he continues to be tired. He can't see her half the time, can't turn his head ( _how do people move?_ ), but feels her there, touching his arm, stroking his hair.

His hair is shorter than he remembers.

But sometimes his mom will stand, will kiss his forehead and tell him she loves him. Blaine wishes he could smile ( _smiling, I remember smiling, how do I smile again?_ ), because his mom hasn't said she loves him so many times since he was little.

No.

No, it stopped recently. It stopped and Blaine was afraid that maybe, maybe, he didn't have a mom anymore.

But she loves him, kisses him, stays with him.

She leaves and he closes his eyes. He's so very tired.

* * *

Someone is holding his hand.

Blaine can feel it, but he can't hold back, but he can feel the fingers laced through his, the back and forth movement of a thumb, familiar and soothing.

It's not his mom.

But it doesn't scare him.

There's no sound, not like before. Blaine is still underwater. He wonders how he's breathing.

Shouldn't there be bubbles?

There is something, suddenly. Blaine doesn't know what it is. Like a tickle along the edge of his awareness. He opens his eyes but the room is dimmer, dimmer than he remembers. Not white. He likes it. But he's tired.

And the tickle, whatever it is, he likes that too.

He sleeps.

* * *

Blaine might not be underwater anymore. He's not sure. His body still feels heavy, but he can hear, a little bit, sometimes. Like talking to someone with bad reception, there are bits and pieces and he hears them.

They don't make sense a lot of the time.

"—trauma, it might take—"

"—movement, chances are he'll—"

"—can't he talk?"

"—come back slowly—"

"—memories?"

"—some tests when he's—"

It hurts. Blaine wishes the water would come back, would swallow him up and the sound would go away. He tries to block it out, doesn't concentrate on it.

"Blaine?"

He opens his eyes and his mom is there again, leaning over him. She looks tired. She never looks tired.

 _Mom, you should sleep_.

Blaine wishes she'd tell him how to talk.

"Blaine, blink if you can hear me, alright?"

He blinks, slow and deliberate, and her face breaks into a smile. Blaine's lips quirk in response. _Oh. That's how I smile_.

"Good, good, thank you," she chants, kissing his forehead, but Blaine doesn't know what he's done.

* * *

One time, he wakes up and everything is different. Panic strikes through him ( _where am I? Where did they take me? Mom? Mom!_ ) and he wishes he could move ( _why won't anyone tell me how to move?_ ), wishes he could talk ( _I remember talking, but how do I do it?_ ), wishes that someone would tell him something.

But then the panic clears and Blaine can _see_.

It's a hospital room.

He's in the hospital.

_Why am I in the hospital?_

He still can't turn his head, can't remember how, but his eyes can move. He can look around, can see. Can see books—his books, from his room—and old cups and magazines and…

There's a vase.

Blaine doesn't recognize it, imagines maybe it's from the hospital, except there are flowers in it. Strange flowers. Blaine hasn't seen flowers like these before. They don't _look_ like flowers, but they do, and Blaine wishes he could touch them, or smell them, or ask someone why there are flowers.

He hears the low shuffle of noise—he can hear better, but now there's no one to hear. They don't talk in the room anymore. He doesn't see the strange people ( _doctors, they must be doctors_ ) anymore, either, just his mom. His mom is always there. 

Except for now.

His eyes go towards the door. Two people are standing there. He wonders why they're standing instead of sitting. They're talking, maybe. He can't hear, but he can see, and that's what it looks like.

It takes him a moment to place one of them, and then another moment to believe it.

Cooper?

Blaine blinks, but Cooper doesn't go away, is still standing there. He looks tired too, and more ruffled than Blaine has ever seen him. It's been a long time.

Did Cooper come home because of him?

Blaine's heart tugs and he wishes he could talk ( _move your mouth, maybe it will work, but how do I move?_ ), wishes Cooper would talk to him, why hasn't Cooper been talking to him?

Who is Cooper talking to?

At first, he thinks it's a doctor. But… No, he's too young. Very young. As young as Blaine is, maybe. Another patient? Why would he be talking to Cooper?

He's… Blaine isn't sure, can't remember the words he should use or if any words exist at all. Blaine is sure, however, that he's never seen anyone quite like this boy. _Who are you?_ He can't ask. He wants to.

The boy has his arms wrapped around himself, like a hug. Except there's no one that he's hugging.

Blaine doesn't know how long he watches, how long he looks, how long he tries to will his mouth to move but _can't, can't, can't_. He can watch, though. So he watches and watches and wonders why this boy is here.

But then the boy turns and looks at him.

Blaine can't turn away. He wants to, but can't, can only keep looking or move his eyes elsewhere. But he wants to look, because now he can see the boy's face, his eyes.

The boy doesn't look away, holds his gaze and Blaine can see his bright blue eyes fill with tears. 

 _No, I'm sorry, please don't cry_.

He steps forward, then rocks back, unsure. He's staring at Blaine. His eyes are pleading. Blaine doesn't know what he's asking for, wishes he did, wishes he could make the boy stop crying.

Blaine waits, hopes the boy will say something, but he doesn't. He just looks, looks as much as Blaine looks back, but Blaine doesn't know why the boy is looking at all. Doesn't know why the boy is there.

Cooper is gone. Blaine hadn't noticed—notices now—wonders where he went and why the boy stayed. The boy who keeps rocking a step forward and then rocking a step back. A rocking horse.

 _You can come in_.

Blaine can't tell him, though.

He feels tired again, is afraid to close his eyes this time, wonders if maybe his eyes are closed already and this boy is a dream. Blaine would dream about a boy like him. 

His eyes flutter and he can feel the exhaustion wash over him, the water flowing back over his head, still weighing down his body. He's almost gone, almost, when he hears it.

A small, strangled whisper.

" _Blaine_."

But where has he heard it before?


	20. Chapter 20

When he isn't underwater, everything is loud.

 _No, no, not underwater_.

Because he's not underwater, he's in a hospital room, in a hospital bed, and a part of him knows what that water really is and why it makes everything heavy and confusing. But he forgets when he tries to name it, so he stops trying to name it.

The hospital room is noisy but quiet. It is noisy with the _beep beep whir whir_ of machines that won't fade to the background, won’t, always _beep beep whir whir_ in the front of Blaine's mind until he's too tired again.

But it's quiet. No voices, no music, no anything.

 _Beep beep whir whir_.

Why can he hear if there's nothing to hear? There is nothing to hear but the noise.

Sometimes there's his mom. Mostly there's his mom. She tells him about her day (which Blaine quickly realizes is uneventful because she spends almost all of it right there with him) and sometimes she reads. They can't make conversation. Can't talk. Can't ask questions.

_Where what when how why._

_Why. Why. Why._

Sometimes there are doctors or nurses. They ask him questions: does this hurt? can you hear this? can you open your mouth? can you flex your hand? They tell him to blink. Twice for yes, three times for no, so he does and he hates it. He hates it because he wants to do those things, wants to _say_ yes, wants to ask his own questions, wants to _move_.

He doesn't. He can't.

No one says anything.

He remembers—no. Maybe? Sometimes they talked, maybe, before, but he doesn't remember anymore. It hurts to try.

Every day he feels sluggish and frustrated and tired, tired, so tired. Underwater. But not underwater, not really.

 _Beep beep whir whir_.

His mom is almost always there, a constant presence. The weight of her hand holding his and the steady hum of her voice are soothing and reassuring, but Blaine is restless. Wants to kick his legs against the weight and scream until everything works again.

He can't scream. Doesn't know how.

Sometimes he wishes there was pain so he could scream.

He wants to ask where his dad is and doesn't, afraid of the answer. He wants to ask about Cooper but then doesn't remember why, knows that there's a reason, but the reason is empty until Blaine forgets.

He thinks about blue eyes sometimes and wonders why.

But there are always the flowers and the empty chair and the closed door. Blaine remembers those things. He sees them sometimes when he opens his eyes, and he stares at the chair and wonders why it's empty.

Mostly he looks at the flowers. He counts them and remembers their colors and shapes. They're not flowers, not really. As his eyes become more focused he _sees_ more and he knows they aren't flowers. But they're beautiful.

Sometimes there are new ones and Blaine wonders.

_Why. Why. Why._

Why are they there?

Where do they come from?

* * *

 _I found god on the corner of First and Amistad_.

"You're always so loud!"

"I'm serenading the night, Jere! Sing with me!"

 _Where the west was all but won_.

"You are the biggest dork."

 _All alone, smoking his last cigarette_.

"Hey Brian, look who it is!"

"If it isn't the fags. I thought I saw you freaks at our dance."

"I thought we made it clear that you fucking homos aren't welcome here."

"Apparently we didn't make it clear enough, huh, Stanley?"

"Jeremy, Jeremy, run. We have to run, come on."

_I said, "Where you been?" He said, "Ask anything."_

"You think you can run?"

"Blaine!"

_Where were you when everything was falling apart?_

* * *

The room is dark.

It's too dark, too dark, and Blaine closes his eyes because he knows he can control that darkness. He's breathing hard, can feel something dull and uncomfortable as he does but doesn't pay attention to it. His heart is beating in his head—it must be in his head, it's so _loud_ , but he can hear the machines, too.

_BEEP BEEP WHIR BEEP BEEP WHIR_

He can feel his body shaking, doesn't know how to stop it.

 _Help me, please, someone help me_.

There's a strong grip on his hand. The wrong hand. Not the one his mom holds, but the other one. He wants to pull back, afraid, he's _so_ afraid ( _please, please, they're coming_ ), but he can't, he can't _move_ , so he's stuck.

Fingers draw circles into the back of his hand and the grip is steady, but it doesn't hurt. It's gentle and comforting, and Blaine feels himself calm down. He wants to look, but he can't move, would just stare into the darkness ( _no, no, no more darkness_ ), so he keeps his eyes closed.

There's a new noise, not just the machines or his breathing or his heart. It's hardly there, but it's enough. A soft humming, touching him like the ebb and flow of a wave but never covering him completely. It's not being underwater, but it's comfort, touching him in careful brushes.

A lullaby.

* * *

Sometimes it's light and sometimes it's dark, but that's the only way Blaine can measure the days. Even then, he forgets. How many times has it been light? How many times has it been dark? How many nights does he wake up and expect pain but can never scream?

Too much time. Too much and he can't count it and no one will tell him.

There are so many questions, _so many_ , and never any answers.

He learns to ignore the machines ( _beep beep whir whir_ ) and then it's always too quiet, always. His mom's voice is the only sound and it begins to fade into the background, too. All there is, all there is, and he wants _more_.

He's sensitive to it now. He can _hear_ , maybe more than people expect.

Or maybe they don't care if they're heard.

They're new voices, but not new. New because they're not his mom's voice. They're _different_. It's quiet, but he can hear it. They don't want him to hear, but he needs something, anything.

He closes his eyes and doesn't sleep.

"Blaine saw him last week."

 _Cooper_.

Blaine would recognize that voice anywhere.

_Him?_

"Does your mom know?"

A woman, a voice he doesn't recognize ( _wait, maybe—no, no_ ). It's silent again.

"That's probably for the best. She's been…" The woman doesn't finish her sentence.

"I know."

Quiet. Cooper is never quiet. Not Cooper, not his brother.

"How's he holding up?"

Cooper again. His voice is still soft. Worried. Affectionate. Is he talking about Blaine?

"He's… I mean, it's hard on him. He won't really talk to anyone about it. He hasn't gone to school since Blaine woke up and Burt's been… Well, Burt's been what he's had to be."

Not Blaine. Who are they talking about? Who is Burt?

"Did my mom talk to him?"

"I believe so… Burt's not very happy with the idea, but if it means Kurt going to school again, he's willing to do it. He's willing to do anything at this point."

Kurt?

"Considering my mom won't even let anybody else in the room, it's probably the best he can hope for right now. I mean, shit—sorry, language—but, he's my brother and I haven't even…"

Blaine feels his breath pick up slightly and tries to will it down. He doesn't need to draw attention to the fact that he isn't asleep, not yet, not when he's finally learning things.

Things that don't make sense, but things, better than the radio silence that had become his normal.

"They just don't want him to be too surprised. He's—they're concerned right now. They still don't know the extent of the damage. If—"

"I know. It doesn't make it any easier for the people barred from the room."

"Carole?"

Blaine can't stop his eyes from opening.

That voice is new. No. It's not new. Not really.

He wants to look. Has to look. Can't look no matter how badly he wants to. But then he hears the click of the door and the voices are gone. That voice is gone and Blaine wants to tug at his hair in frustration.

He wishes he still had such luxuries.

Blaine stares at his ceiling, his eyes tracing over the subtle grooves in the plaster.

 _Kurt_.

 _Mom won't even let anyone else in the room_.

 _Extent of the damage_.

 _Barred from the room_.

_"Carole."_

The voice rings around in his head, the melody of a song he can't remember the words to.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could sit here and apologize to you guys on ends and ends; it's been nearly a month since an update and I didn't really leave you a very good chapter to end off on. I finish summer school in about three weeks and then I have FOUR MONTHS laid bare in front of me, mine to do with as I like. To make it up to you, this chapter is nearly the length of two very long chapters... So it's almost like you get two chapters for the price of one!
> 
> Also, you guys should go and look at [this gifset gleeddicted made for STST](http://gleeddicted.tumblr.com/post/29776788339/something-to-sleep-to-by-tresbellemichelle-what). It is flawless!

It doesn't take long for Blaine to meet Laura, his physical therapist. That's her name, his mom says, as if Blaine can't hear her introduce herself.

And he did, he's sure, but the next time she's there he can't remember it or her.

"Do you remember Laura?" His mom asks.

Blink three times for no.

His mom will look at him with a drawn expression and then a tight smile and Laura will introduce herself again. And again. And again. Eventually, she's Laura, he remembers, but the tightness in his mom's face doesn't disappear.

But for once, Blaine feels almost content. Laura seems to answer the questions he has without him asking ( _how do I do this? how do I move?_ ) and she shows him how again. He forgets, but she shows him again and again until the doctor asks Blaine to wiggle his fingers and he _does_.

Curling his fingers into a fist has never felt more satisfying as it does right in that moment, and he keeps doing it, thrilled at the exertion it causes and feeling his body moving and working. They're still working with his arms when one day Blaine decides to turn his head and he does it, blinking in surprise and then turning his head the other way to smile at his mother.

She's in tears.

It's slow and deliberate at first; he never turns his head too fast or without reason, but soon the muscles loosen and remember. No more blinking; he nods and shakes his head and watches people move around the room.

He stares at the flowers a lot more than he used to.

With how confined he's felt, Blaine feels like these simple things have given him a new sense of freedom. He wants to laugh, to dance, to _sing_.

Blaine doesn't think about the possibility that he may never do any of those things again.

* * *

Everything is dark. _Too_ dark. Blaine can't even see the ground beneath his feet, but that doesn't stop him. He keeps running. He has to keep running, knows that if he stops, he'll—

"Blaine!"

 _Jeremy_.

Blaine doesn't know where he is, he can't _see_ , it's too dark, too dark, why is it so dark?

He's turned around, running again, running back, but he's moving so slowly. He needs to go faster, needs to find Jeremy, needs to find him before _they_ find him. But it's hard to tell if he's moving, it's _too dark_ , but he keeps going, has to keep going.

He falls so suddenly, slow motion to fast forward and his palms skim the ground. It's sharp, like glass, and he cries out—tries to, there's no sound. The darkness swallows it all up.

"Blaine!"

 _I'm coming, I'm coming, hold on_.

But he can't move. Hands grab at his ankles, more at his legs and his arms and there's a weight holding him down, pushing him into the glass. The hands are rough, sinking through his skin until they're grabbing at his bones and _tugging_ and he tries to scream, tries to cry for help, but when he opens his mouth it floods full of water and he's _drowning, drowning, drowning_.

Darkness.

* * *

There isn’t enough air.

Blaine is gasping, his lungs filling quickly over and over again until he aches from it. It’s not enough but it’s all he has; he could thrash his head from side to side but that doesn’t _do_ any good, it doesn’t _help_ him and he needs help ( _someone please help_ ).

The room blurs before him—dark, obscured by his fluttering eyelids until he slams them shut, panting. Blaine can’t control anything anymore, but he can control _this_ darkness. He doesn’t want to think about the other darkness, the one that swallows him up, the one with secrets and danger lurking in its shadows.

But he has to look.

He’s scared, he’s _so_ scared and he wants to run, run as far as he can, but he’s being pulled down and kept there and he wants to scream ( _let me go! get off of me! somebody please help! help!_ ) but he can’t. So he swallows and breathes and makes himself open his eyes.

It’s just a hospital room. There’s no parking lot, there’s no Jeremy, there’s no monsters.

No danger.

He breathes a little easier.

His eyes flick around uneasily, still searching out the shadows. Blaine feels like he’s on the edge of something, _waiting waiting waiting_ , but he has no idea what he’s waiting for. But he has to wait, has to look, because there are answers and that’s all Blaine wants.

He just wants answers.

Why will no one give them to him?

His hands clench, balling into fists except—except not, because his right hand can’t form a fist. There’s something there, something pressed against his skin and it feels strange and he wants to move away from it, so very far away.

But he doesn’t know what it is.

He squeezes his hand—three, four, five times, fingers feeling and clutching and Blaine is still exhilarated because he _can_ move his hands finally that it takes him a few minutes to even grasp what he’s touching.

It’s a hand.

He’s holding a hand.

It’s smooth and warm and strange and Blaine is scared but he’s curious, too, _so_ curious that he wants to turn and look—he hesitates. 

It’s a solid weight, not heavy but... But almost _comforting_ , and there are light puffs of air tickling his pinky finger and it twitches, but the tickling doesn’t go away. It’s steady and constant and—breathing. It’s breathing.

_Who is here? Who are you? What do you want?_

And, for the first time, Blaine realizes he can maybe answer these questions without someone else. He’ll know. He’ll know and he won’t have to wait anymore ( _waiting waiting waiting, always waiting_ ). 

Does he want to know?

So he turns his head and he looks and he stops breathing again.

Someone is there. A head of hair ( _what color? why is it so dark?_ ) and closed eyes and it’s a boy, a strange boy, resting his head on Blaine’s mattress.

Blaine never thought this would be how he shared a bed with a boy for the first time. 

Not this boy; this strange, hypnotically beautiful boy, and—Blaine doesn’t understand. Why is he here? Who is he?

Blue eyes. Blaine thinks of them, face twisted in confusion, and wonders why. The stranger’s eyes are closed so Blaine doesn’t know where the thought comes from, only that it’s there and just as quickly, it’s gone.

Something tells him to be scared, but something else tells him that this boy is holding his hand.

This boy is _holding his hand_ and Blaine has no idea why.

Why is he _here?_ Why is he sitting in the chair that no one ever sits in? Blaine has stared at that chair and wondered at its emptiness and why it felt so _wrong_.

_Who are you? Why don’t I know you? Why are you here? Why are you holding my hand?_

No one holds his hand. His mom does, but she hadn’t for a very long time and now she does again, and it makes Blaine feel relieved.

He and Jeremy hadn’t held hands. They were friends. They weren’t even really close friends. They laughed together and talked and bonded over being young and out and suddenly different.

They hadn’t even slow danced.

And this had still happened.

Blaine is suddenly terrified, eyes turning to the door. He waits. Because they have to be coming now. They’re going to come for him and punish him again because some boy he doesn’t know is holding his hand. Blaine wishes he would stop, closes his eyes and hopes that it will make him disappear.

But he’s clutching at that hand because _please, please, please don’t disappear_.

 _Please don’t leave me alone_.

His heart slows down. The door doesn’t open. Blaine breathes again, opens his eyes, and the boy is still there, his hand loose but clutched tightly in Blaine’s.

He’s still scared. Blaine is always scared, _always_ , and he knows nothing about this boy other than that he’s holding Blaine’s hand.

Blaine wonders if maybe that should be enough.

He turns and tilts his head as best as he can until he can stare easily at where his fingers are laced through with the other boy’s. _Laced_. Blaine has never held hands this way. His mother never holds his hand this way and no one has _ever_ held Blaine’s hand like this. Something in his chest pinches at the realization and he wishes he could move his arm, wishes he could rub it away.

He has so many wishes these days.

Blaine’s hand is loose again and he stares, stares at how even after being in the hospital ( _how long have I been here now? why won’t anyone tell me anything?_ ) his skin is just that much darker than the boy’s.

_I wish I knew your name._

He wishes he even had the ability or opportunity to ask what it is.

He’d been clutching it before but this time when he squeezes his hand it’s slow, deliberate, wondering. Wondering if the boy might wake up sometime soon and see Blaine. What would happen then? It’s scary, everything is scary, but Blaine still wants it. Every day it’s his mom, the doctors, the nurses, Laura... Never anyone else. Never anyone to talk to him like he’s _Blaine_ and not _Blaine-in-the-hospital_.

Just Blaine.

He misses being himself.

Holding hands like this is weird. Weird in a different, unknown way that Blaine doesn’t dislike. It feels strange and intimate and comforting and again, he has to wonder who this boy is and why he’s holding Blaine’s hand this way.

His eyes travel from their linked figures the short distance to the boy’s face; it’s pillowed right near his hip, just past their hands, and it’s only then that Blaine realizes how awkwardly the boy is sitting. Blaine has spent so long laying down, but he still remembers how his body used to feel, knows that having his back hunched like that would be painful and uncomfortable.

The boy is asleep, but he doesn’t look comfortably asleep. His eyebrows are drawn and he’s frowning and Blaine wants to ask why.

 _So many wants. So many wishes. So many questions_.

Blaine isn’t sure he’s ever seen a boy like this one before. Maybe. He squints his eyes, tries to remember, but it’s like grabbing at a cloud. Gone. He lets it go and looks instead. He’s beautiful in a way boys aren’t supposed to be beautiful, not when Blaine thinks about the boys from school ( _sneering faces, spitting lips, angry eyes, disgust, yelling, hitting, pain, so much pain_ ). Boys aren’t beautiful this way and Blaine wonders if he’s dreaming again.

This would be a dream, not a nightmare.

But in his dreams he can move, he can speak, and he can’t now. He wishes and nothing happens.

Not a dream, it can’t be.

So this boy is beautiful. Blaine didn’t know boys could be beautiful, didn’t know he’d ever think another boy was. Handsome, cute, sexy, hot—those are the words he’s supposed to use, isn’t he?

The boy’s eyebrows are furrowed and there’s a line there between them that Blaine keeps staring at, willing the boy to open his eyes. He looks so... Sad. Worried. Uncomfortable. Blaine wants to move his hand ( _can’t, just fingers, can’t even reach my arm_ ) and wipe it away, like erasing that line will erase everything.

His body is still already but he feels the shock from that, from _thinking_ that. He doesn’t even know this boy, it doesn’t matter how sad he looks, Blaine shouldn’t be wanting to touch him in his sleep. Wouldn’t that be weird?

 _He’s holding my hand, was holding it while I slept_.

Is that weird?

Blaine doesn’t know, isn’t sure, can’t focus on an answer right now.

He watches, wonders, waits ( _waiting, waiting, waiting_ ) for the boy to open his eyes, holds his hand and wonders _who are you?_

* * *

Freedom is short lived.

Blaine can move, sort of, and it was freedom, once. But it’s not _enough_. His head is clearing, every day it feels like more things are starting to make sense than they had the day before. It should be a relief, but it only makes things worse. It only tells Blaine how much he doesn’t know and how much they won’t tell him.

His mom doesn’t say a word. He looks at her, stares her down, but she just smiles and reads books. She doesn’t talk about anything—not her social circles, not his dad, not work, not the world around them. The hospital room is a bubble and Blaine feels trapped and exhausted. 

When he falls asleep and the sun is up, she stays. But Blaine quickly learns that when he closes his eyes at night, when the hospital is quiet and dark ( _too dark, too dark, why can’t they leave my light on?_ ), she’ll gather her things and leave and it’s not for food or coffee or the bathroom.

She doesn’t come back.

He does sleep most of the time when he closes his eyes and she kisses his forehead and whispers goodnight, but more and more he finds that he can’t stand the kindness in her eyes when he feels like there are a million secrets behind it. 

So he pretends. Turns his head away, closes his eyes, but he doesn’t sleep. He waits until her lips sweep across his skin and she tells him she loves him (and his heart still constricts, still remembers all the days she _didn’t_ say it) and leaves him there. He’s alone and he hates it, but there’s no audience.

His mom is there but she isn’t company. Blaine still feels alone. Blaine still feels so lost and out of control and he _hates_ it.

So he lies in bed, eyes closed, not tired for _once_ , and he tries to think. He tries to _remember_. But looking back, trying to see, it _hurts_. His chest clenches and he backs away from it, he _can’t_ look. He wants to know, but he doesn’t want to see.

Sometimes he thinks of other things. Things from _before_. Before Sadie Hawkins, before Jeremy, before he’d said two words and changed everything forever.

Why did everything have to change?

He was still Blaine. Somewhere, right now, he _is_ still Blaine, even if he doesn’t feel like it anymore.

 _I’m gay_.

Why does that change who he is?

One time, a light appears out of the darkness and Blaine hears a chair move across the linoleum floor. _The_ chair, not his mom’s, but the one that is always, always empty.

Except for once.

Blaine isn’t sure what to do, doesn’t know what to think— _it was a dream, wasn’t it a dream?_ —when he feels warm fingers thread through his and it’s so familiar that Blaine’s breath catches in his throat and opens his eyes.

It’s not dark. He knew already but now he can tell that the lamp to his right is on (he’s never seen it on before), can tell that the rest of the room is dark and quiet. But it’s not empty.

It’s a moment, a split decision, and Blaine battles between his curiosity and his fear of knowing, because he’s _scared_. He wants to know but he’s scared of what exactly he’ll learn.

_But what if I never have the chance again?_

He slowly turns his head, eyes open and focused and growing wide as he focuses on the figure sitting, legs crossed, in the almost-always-empty chair. It’s _him_.

 _Not a dream_.

Because there’s the boy again, head bowed over a magazine, and his eyes would look closed if Blaine couldn’t see the subtle flutter of his eyelashes as he blinks. In the dark of the hospital room the other night (how long had it been now? Blaine never knows how much time has passed anymore), Blaine hadn’t been able to see much of the boy, but now he can.

He’s dressed _really_ nicely.

And he’s definitely holding Blaine’s hand like... Like it’s _nothing_. Like it’s _normal_. Like the boy can sit there and hold Blaine’s hand and read a magazine and it’s okay.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the boy raises his head quite casually, and looks at Blaine.

 _Blue eyes_.

Blaine wonders how he knew that.

But if the boy scares Blaine (and he doesn’t, not really, but there’s always fear now), the boy seems to be ten times as scared of Blaine. His eyes widen almost comically and he jerks backwards; his hand would have left Blaine’s, but he tightened his own grip, trying to tell the boy, _please, please don’t go, please_ without the words he doesn’t have.

He wishes so much he had them.

It’s so quiet, somehow quieter than before. The boy stares and Blaine stares back and then watches as those blue eyes fill too quickly with tears. Shock. It rocks through him and his expression is open, confused, he doesn’t _understand_ why this boy is crying. He blinks too quickly, the flash of light and dark disorienting him but there’s not much else he _can_ do and it infuriates him.

 _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_.

The boy’s breathing hitches and the tears haven’t fallen, but the boy’s lip is trembling.

 _Please don’t cry_.

He covers his mouth with his hand and closes his eyes and loses whatever battle he was fighting. The tears seem endless as they run from his eyes and Blaine just watches, face torn apart with helplessness.

 _I don’t know what I did but please don’t cry. Please don’t cry anymore. I’m sorry_.

Blaine has to _do_ something. Why can’t he do anything? He can’t even _speak_ , can’t even _ask_ , he’s so helpless it infuriates him. Blaine does things, he _helps_ people, he can’t _stand_ to see people cry.

He can’t stand to see this boy cry and not know how to help him.

Blaine wants to help him.

So he does the only thing he can do. He squeezes the boy’s hand as deliberately as possible.

This doesn’t seem to help. In fact, the boy just starts crying harder. Now Blaine _really_ doesn’t know what to do. He’s shaking his head, eyebrows pulled in worry and he just keeps squeezing the boy’s hand again and again and again because what else _can_ he do?

But eventually those blue eyes open again and there are still tears, _too many_ tears, and Blaine wishes he’d stopped crying, wishes he could tell him and ask him and _do_ something. They stare at each other again and the boy’s lip wobbles and Blaine doesn’t want him to cry anymore, only this time the boy hiccups out a laugh, rubbing at his eyes and shaking his head.

And Blaine is so confused, can’t look away, his eyebrows furrowed together as he tries to understand.

His eyes are still glossy but suddenly he’s laughing, softly, and it makes Blaine smile just a little bit. He doesn’t understand why this boy was crying or why he’s laughing now, like some joke passed between them and no one decided to tell Blaine what it was. But he likes it when the boy laughs, the way laughing makes him smile and Blaine doesn’t know what he was thinking the other night.

This boy is beautiful, this laughing, smiling boy, even when there are still tears in his eyes.

Blaine squeezes again and this time, _this time_ , the boy squeezes back and it’s so unlike anything Blaine can remember. He’d always wondered about handholding, but he’d never thought he’d like it quite so much.

Another squeeze, and the boy squeezes back and yes, okay, that’s nice, but is the boy going to do anything else? Blaine frowns slightly and they go back and forth, back and forth, until Blaine feels himself get exasperated.

_I can’t talk. How am I supposed to ask you things and tell you things when all I can do is squeeze your hand?_

But the boy seems to realize, laughs again, more loudly this time ( _how can I get him to keep laughing like that?_ ) and shakes his head. Blaine doesn’t understand why he’s shaking his head, but he does, and when he looks at Blaine again his expression is more controlled. There’s still a smile, a hint of one, but there’s something else behind the boy’s eyes (so, _so_ blue) that Blaine can’t name.

“Are you trying to get my attention?”

The voice feels like it rocks through him. It’s that feeling again, the one he keeps getting, that niggling sensation at the back of his mind like he should know something and doesn’t. He tilts his head slightly, in confusion, and stares at the boy like he’s some sort of puzzle. Something feels surreal about it all, something is out of his grasp; it feels like he’s talking to a figment of his imagination.

Only it’s not a figment. It’s real. It’s manifested itself somehow and it’s _real_.

The boy looks nervous suddenly, eyes darting around and he turns to look over his shoulder at the door more than once and Blaine feels more confused. _What? Why are you here? What are you looking for? Who are you?_

Blaine wishes there weren’t so many questions all the time.

So he just nods, because he was asked a question and he’s going to answer it.

The boy looks a little shocked but he smooths out the material of his pants (denim, jeans, _skinny_ jeans, _really tight_ skinny jeans—Blaine makes himself look away from them) and seems to compose himself.

“What?”

If Blaine could laugh, he would have, but instead he just gives the boy a look. _I can’t talk_. He tries to convey as much with his eyes and it’s only a few moments before the boy’s face flushes with embarrassment and he groans.

“Wow, I’m—I’m sorry. I forgot.”

 _I forgot_.

Blaine stares at him. Because people don’t forget things like that. People don’t forget that Blaine can’t move or that he can’t talk. They know, and they’re aware, and they treat Blaine like he’s a child (he’s _fifteen_ , for god’s sake!). They treat him like he’s more broken than he is and it just makes him feel that broken. But this boy is looking at him and _talking_ to him like he isn’t different. Like he isn’t as handicapped as he is.

Blaine squeezes the boy’s hand again and, when he looks at him, Blaine smiles just a little. Something flashes across the boy’s face—too fast, Blaine can’t even begin to read it—and then he’s smiling hesitantly back.

“Is that your way of forgiving my moment of stupidity?”

 _It wasn’t stupid_ , Blaine wishes he could say, but instead he just nods.

It’s quiet and Blaine wills the boy to speak again, doesn’t want it to fall silent and awkward (because it will be awkward, there’s no way to avoid that). So he waits ( _waiting waiting waiting_ ) and watches as a million things pass over the boy’s face. He seems... Reluctant and hesitant and so very unsure, but there’s something more.

_Do you want to go?_

“Do you want me to go?” The boy asks and he sounds so _small_ , and it startles Blaine, his eyes blinking in surprise, and he shakes his head almost too quickly. The boy doesn’t look convinced so Blaine meets his eyes and then turns his head back and forth very deliberately.

 _No. Don’t go. Stay_.

But the boy still looks uneasy even as he settles into the chair, his thumb moving over Blaine’s knuckle and... Blaine doesn’t know how to feel about that. Even if he wanted to, it’s not exactly like he can move his hand away. More than anything, he wants to know who this boy is and why he’s holding Blaine’s hand and why he’s doing it so intimately. Strangers don’t hold hands.

_Is he gay?_

Does he know that Blaine’s gay?

Do straight boys hold other boys’ hands?

The boy is chewing his lip now and Blaine tells himself not to look, remembers why he’s in the hospital and averts his eyes.

“...do you know who I am?”

Blaine turns to look at the boy again, confused, but the boy is looking down at his lap and Blaine can’t see his face anymore. Should he know who this boy is? Blaine waits, because it does no good answering if the boy can’t see him, until blue eyes raise hesitantly. They’re glassy again and Blaine almost just _doesn’t_ answer, but wouldn’t that be worse? Doesn’t he know better than anyone how hard it is not to have answers?

So he shakes his head again and the boy closes his eyes quickly, shutting himself away, turning aside and letting out a small, ‘ah.’

It’s quiet again and Blaine hears a sniffle, a small one, and his eyebrows raise in alarm.

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry I don’t know you. I’d like to._

But he can’t say anything, so he squeezes the boy’s hand again. It worked before, but instead the boy just opens his eyes and looks at his hand.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracks and Blaine stares at him, a mixture of worry and confusion in his eyes, because what does this boy have to apologize for? “Do you want me to stop holding your hand?”

There’s a moments hesitation—this is an out, he’s being offered one. But the idea of letting go of the boy’s hand, especially now when he’s so obviously distressed, isn’t fathomable. So he shakes his head no again.

“Are you just saying no to all my questions?” There’s a lightness to the boy’s voice then and Blaine is halfway through shaking his head before he stops and frowns, looking at the boy wryly. He laughs and it’s watery and weaker than it was before, but it’s a laugh and that has to count for something. The boy just looks back at him, that same something in his eyes again that Blaine can’t discern, but then the boy is looking away and clearing his throat.

“Then I suppose I should introduce myself.” He sits up a bit more primly and Blaine is sure the boy would offer his hand if Blaine wasn’t clutching it (and Blaine realizes then that, yes, he _is_ clutching this boy’s hand). “I’m Kurt.”

_Kurt._

Blaine feels like he’s been hit by a truck and he wishes he could move, grasp his head, but he pushes back into the pillows instead and Kurt’s eyes widen as he looks at him.

“Blaine?” His voice is alarmed, but that’s not what Blaine’s hearing.

“ _Blaine_.”

Had that been that first day? And the other day, when he’d heard Cooper and the nurse talking... They’d mentioned a Kurt, hadn’t they? Blaine _has_ heard Kurt’s voice before, but he... He forgot it, he couldn’t remember, couldn’t—

His head hurts and he feels dizzy and his head _hurts_ , so he closes his eyes and tries to make it all go away. He bites down hard on his lip, too hard, _too much pain_ and there’s a strange gurgle in his throat and— _wait, a gurgle, he made a sound?_

“Blaine? Are you okay? Do you need me to get a nurse? A doctor?” Blaine opens his eyes and Kurt is standing now, right there, clutching Blaine’s hand in both of his and that—that’s different, too. Good different. Great different.

Kurt looks so scared and Blaine just wants him to know that it’s okay and _didn’t he hear?_ Didn’t he hear Blaine make a _sound?_

He shakes his head and hopes that’s the right answer.

“You’re not okay?”

Kurt looks so _broken_.

But he is, he’s okay, it’s just pain. Pain is familiar, he’s _used_ to pain by now. There is so much pain all the time, even when the medication is swimming through him and he can’t feel _anything_. There’s more than just the physical pain. There is so, so much more.

Blaine looks conflicted again and Kurt seems to notice.

“If you’re okay, nod,” Kurt says slowly as if he’s suddenly realized he’s been asking too many questions too quickly. So Blaine nods, because he’s okay. There’s no pain the doctors or the nurses can fix this time.

Relief seems to seep through Kurt and his entire demeanor shifts and Blaine is looking at him, staring, because Kurt is standing and is close and he can’t not look. He shouldn’t be looking. He’s not supposed to look, not when his attentions aren’t wanted.

Kurt takes back one of his hands and immediately rubs at his eyes and forehead and Blaine doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand as Kurt moves the chair closer, _closer_ , and wilts into it, doesn’t understand the quiet ‘thank _god_ ’ that Kurt whispers.

Why does he care?

Why does Blaine mean anything to him?

He stares at Kurt and wonders, because it feels like something is missing (it always does, like there are so many pieces and he’s only holding a few of them) and Blaine has no idea what. But he’s confused and unsure and curious. He wants to be able to talk, to _ask_ , but he can’t even make the sound in his throat again.

He can’t remember how he even did it the first time.

So he looks at Kurt ( _Kurt_ , and it’s wonderful that he has a name now, a name, and a face, and a voice) and he waits. Blaine has always been patient, but the hospital has only made him more so. He waits, and he waits and finally, Kurt looks up at him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?

_Like what?_

But Blaine just squeezes his hand and it manages to coax a small smile out of Kurt.

“I’m sorry.”

 _Don’t apologize_.

“I know you don’t get a lot of visitors—”

_You do?_

“—and... If you want me here—”

 _I do_.

“—then I’ll try to be better company. I guess it’s just weird to...”

But Kurt trails off, smiling and biting his lip and shaking his head. Blaine feels like he’s been left out of a joke again. What’s weird? That he’s talking to Blaine and Blaine can’t answer him?

 _If it means you’ll keep talking to me, then it’s not weird_.

It surprises Blaine how much he suddenly wants this. He wants something besides what everyone thinks he should be given. He doesn’t know Kurt, doesn’t know more than his name and his laugh and how his hand and fingers feel in Blaine’s. But he could get to know him, couldn’t he? He could have someone else to talk to (or, at least, to talk to _him_ ) and maybe that would help.

He smiles without meaning to and Kurt looks a little surprised and... Something else. It’s that something that Blaine keeps seeing flickers of that he doesn’t understand. No one’s ever looked at him the way Kurt is looking at him.

Kurt squeezes his hand and then picks up his magazine and Blaine notices it then—it’s Vogue. His eyes perk with interest and Kurt looks intrigued.

“Do you like Vogue?”

Blaine nods and then Kurt is beaming at him, scooting impossible closer. Blaine wishes they could be shoulder to shoulder, magazine open between, discussing the photoshoots and the fashion and the trend forecasts.

“There’s some pretty good articles and, of course, wonderful photoshoots. You’ll just have to deal with my commentary, okay?” Kurt looks over at him, hesitant again, but Blaine just smiles. Kurt opens his mouth for a moment but no words come out and then he’s looking down, his hand pushing at imaginary creases in his pants again. When he looks up again he seems to have recovered and Blaine looks at him curiously, a bit confused.

But the feeling disappears as Kurt flips open the magazine and immediately turns the pages towards Blaine.

“Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t agree with this color palette at all. It completely washes her out.”

Blaine might not know Kurt but he finds that he wants to. Because he’s never known someone like Kurt and he doubts he will ever have the chance again.

So Kurt reads, pauses to ask Blaine yes or no questions and laughs when he makes faces at some of the more hideous fashion choices. And the night wears on and Blaine becomes comfortable, finds that Kurt’s voice doesn’t so much as fade to the background as becomes a soothing present. Blaine doesn’t even notice his eyes are closed until Kurt is touching his arm and whispering, “Blaine?”

He blinks them open and looks at Kurt, frowning and clutching his hand.

“I’m not leaving.”

Blaine’s hand relaxes.

“Would you like me to come back tomorrow night?”

There’s no hesitation when Blaine nods this time and the smile that blooms across Kurt’s face makes Blaine want to continue saying yes.

“Okay.”

 _Okay_.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... How long has it been? Eight months or so? I can only apologize profusely, really. Writing Klaine has been difficult for me since the Break Up, but it's finally coming back to me with ease. This chapter was originally supposed to have a lot more in it, but then I added a bunch of scenes I hadn't planned, and, well, it just means the next one shouldn't be too long coming. I don't know how many of you are still here, but... I'm incredibly happy if you stuck with me through this. <3

Every day, Blaine gets a little better.

Laura is encouraging. She tells him to do one thing, and he can do it. Sometimes, he can even do it without her help. It feels like progress, especially when everything else is at a standstill. Because everything is stagnant, and repetitive, and it’s hard to feel like he’s moving forward when he’s not really moving at all. He still can’t get out of bed or sit up on his own, and he spends most of his time feeling like a ragdoll.

So the best part of his days become his nights. When everybody else is gone, and it's just him, Kurt, and the bedside lamp. It’s something for Blaine to look forward to, something that helps him get through each day of repetition, of confusion, of feeling _nothing_ , at the hospital. It’s something that makes it _bearable_.

And it means having someone to show his progress to. His mom is always there, hovering, clapping excitedly when he does this or that. But it’s different with Kurt. When Blaine opens his eyes and Kurt is there, smiling at him, it’s a way for Blaine to say, _look, I’m getting better_ , when he can’t quite say it himself yet. It means showing Kurt his personal progress by adding a new gesture to their strange sort of conversation that wasn’t there before. It means finding out that if he wiggles his toes an excessive amount, or manages to shimmy his shoulders, he can make Kurt smile or laugh.

Blaine isn't sure he's ever had to rely on body language so much in his life, where every movement of his hand or shrug of his shoulders comes to mean something. He isn't sure if it speaks of his own ability, or of the kind of person Kurt just _is_ , that Kurt seems to understand what Blaine is trying to say. There's miscommunication on Blaine's part—it's hard for there not to be—but they make it work.

Somehow, they make it work.

And it should be strange.

Blaine knows nothing about Kurt. He doesn’t know how much Kurt knows about him. Kurt could be dangerous, or untrustworthy, or a _drug dealer_ , and Blaine lets him sit in his hospital room, at night, just the two of them, and doesn’t question it. Because for some reason that Blaine doesn’t understand, Kurt doesn’t make him feel afraid.

He can’t remember the last time he didn’t feel afraid.

On top of that, Kurt makes him feel _normal_ , and Blaine misses feeling that way, can’t _remember_ the last time he truly felt normal. Most importantly, Kurt helps Blaine forget. He helps Blaine forget about the white walls of the hospital, about how much he doesn’t know, about how _confused_ he feels all the time, and about the nightmares that haunt every dark corner.

Kurt doesn’t do anything but treat Blaine like a person, and it’s something Blaine would have never thought to ask for.

He can only be glad that Kurt decided to give it to him. Because, for at least a little while, Blaine can pretend things are okay. He can ignore the fact that he’s living in a state of near constant confusion, that no one will tell him what’s going on or what happened. As long as Kurt is there, talking to him and holding his hand, Blaine can _escape_.

*

One day, Blaine doesn’t need help sitting up anymore, and that’s when things change again. Suddenly, there are more doctors, too many names to remember.

But he still can’t talk.

They don’t tell him why, but Blaine is starting to figure it out. He forgot how to move, and now he’s remembered. Somehow, he’s forgotten how to talk, and no one seems to want to teach him how to do it again.

There’s a table placed over his bed, and they do tests. There are cards with pictures on them, and they ask him questions and have him answer by pointing to them. Blaine feels like a child. But he’s felt like a child almost constantly since he woke up.

They all treat him like one.

All of them, except Kurt.

“Do you like memory games, Blaine?” The doctor helping him asks. He doesn’t know her name, and he doesn’t answer. She’s talking to him the same way he talks to puppies—like they don’t understand.

There are eight cards, four sets of pictures. She lays them out.

“Just look at the cards for me, okay, Blaine?” She smiles at him. “Then I’ll turn them over, and just point to the sets. Do you understand, Blaine?”

Blaine wishes she’d stop saying his name that way.

There’s a picture of an apple, a bee, a flower, and a house. Simple enough. After a few seconds, she turns them over.

“All you have to do is pick out the pairs, Blaine.”

He knows. He just doesn’t remember where they were. He stares at the backs of the cards, but that’s all he sees. It’s almost like he never saw the pictures at all. His breathing gets heavier—what were the pictures again?

“Blaine, can you pick out the house for me?”

No. No, he can’t.

“What’s wrong?” His mom is right there, just like she always is. “Blaine, what’s wrong?”

Why can’t he remember? _Why can’t he remember?_

“Blaine, you need to calm down, it’s okay.”

No. It’s not okay. Don’t they understand? He doesn’t know what the pictures are, he doesn’t remember where they were, _don’t they understand?_ He can’t remember!

He doesn’t know what happens then, just that he can’t breathe, and there’s noise that he can’t hear as well.

There are no more tests.

*

That night, Blaine wishes he could tell Kurt.

 _I can’t remember_.

He can’t remember so much.

But he can’t talk, either. He can’t do a lot of things. There’s _so much_ he can’t do.

All he _can_ do is hold Kurt’s hand, and remember to breathe.

Maybe Kurt knows something, or maybe he was told what happened. Blaine doesn’t like that at all. It’s not fair, for Kurt to know things that Blaine isn’t allowed to know.

It’s not _fair_.

But he still holds onto Kurt’s hand.

He needs something to hang onto right now.

“I thought,” Kurt says, in that quiet way he does that Blaine usually loves. But the resentment sticks. How much does Kurt know? How much can _Kurt_ remember? How much can _Kurt_ do? “That we could do something different tonight. Or we can talk, if you want. It’s up to you.”

His smile is so hesitant, and gentle, and Blaine feels the anger fall away.

Kurt isn’t the one he should be angry with.

Blaine just doesn’t know _who_ to be angry with anymore. He just wants to know, is that so much?

Suddenly, Kurt is holding a book out for Blaine to see. _Oliver Twist_. Blaine feels his heart clench, and he wants to ask, _how did you know?_ He stares at Kurt, wondering, not for the first time, who he is.

“Blaine?” There’s an uneasiness to Kurt’s voice, and he tips his head to the side a little bit. Unsure. “I thought I could read to you. Would that be okay?”

Blaine loves that he can at least nod, because he does, but he doesn’t stop staring at Kurt. He doesn’t stop wondering.

He just wants to _know_.

“Okay.” Kurt smiles, bright and relieved, and it makes Blaine feel lighter. He clears his throat, sits up a little straighter, and opens the book gingerly. It looks brand new.

“ _Chapter one. Treats of the place where Oliver Twist was born and of the circumstances attending his birth._ ” Kurt scrunches up his nose a bit, looking up from the book to meet Blaine’s eyes. “I’ve actually never read this before.”

Blaine can feel his eyes bug, and Kurt laughs in response, quiet and huffing, like he doesn’t want to make so much noise in the quiet. Blaine wonders what he sounds like when he just lets go and laughs.

“I know. And I can see you judging me.” Kurt gives him a pointed, teasing look, and Blaine can smile better now—so he does. “But you’re the best reason I can think of to read it.” Kurt seems taken aback by his own sentence, and quickly drops to look down at the book again.

The best reason Kurt can think of? Blaine’s eyebrows pinch together. He doesn’t understand, which is a feeling he’s come to be very familiar with since waking up. What’s so great about him?

“Alright, no more interruptions,” Kurt says, authoritatively, after a few moments. Blaine can see the way his thumb is pressed to the pages, keeping his place. “ _Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name—_ these are the longest sentences, when am I supposed to breathe?”

Blaine smiles, and closes his eyes as Kurt continues. He’s read it so many times before, but never quite like this.

“Are you asleep already?” Kurt stage whispers, and Blaine keeps smiling and shakes his head against the pillow. “Okay, good, because I’m pretty sure I’m still on the first sentence.”

Blaine _feels_ the laugh that time, and it still hurts, still rattles some part of him that’s still loose inside. Kurt’s hand presses to his shoulder, and Blaine cracks his eyes open to see him staring worriedly.

“I’ll try to tone it down with the commentary. We don’t need you to break anything else laughing, alright?” Kurt grins. “Although that was great for my ego, I appreciate it.”

Blaine very obviously rolls his eyes, and Kurt raises his hand, almost like he plans on smacking Blaine. But he seems to think better of it, bringing his hand back to the book instead.

“You can close your eyes again, if you want,” Kurt mutters, and Blaine does. He feels strangely content, despite everything that’s happened that day alone. Then again, Kurt just seems to have that effect on him.

“ _For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble—_ he is talking about Oliver, right? Why does he keep referring to him as _it_?”

Blaine cracks another grin.

No. Never quite like this.

*

The same doctor is back the next day. Blaine really wishes she would wear a nametag, because he still can’t remember her name, and it’s not like he can _ask_ her (aside from the fact that it would be rude). The table is set over his bed again, and the cards are back. He doesn’t like them. He wishes they would do different tests.

“Just take your time looking at the pictures, okay Blaine?” The doctor says to him. He doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t want to fail again.

Blaine hates failing.

An apple, a bee, a flower, and a house. They remind Blaine of the memory game he played in kindergarten, with the same bright, bold pictures. He gets a lot longer to stare this time, but the doctor flips them over without warning again.

Blaine had a history teacher that was incredibly boring. Every day, Blaine would go to class and try to pay attention. But, after about ten minutes, he completely zoned out, and left at the end of the period with an empty notebook and no idea what his teacher had taught that day.

That’s how he feels now. He knows he’s supposed to know, and has a vague, foggy _something_ in his head. Like bright splotches of color, but no defined edges. Like looking at scenery through a frosted window.

He stares blankly at the cards, and just shakes his head.

“Don’t worry. We’re going to try again, Blaine.” She flips the cards back over, and then makes a note on her covered pad.

An apple, a bee, a flower, and a house.

“Do you mind if we try something this time?” The doctor asks him, and he looks up at her. “How about we use the pictures to make a story?”

Blaine feels a hot flash of humiliation go up his spine, and he drops his gaze to the cards. He feels like a child again. He feels like the little boy he was in kindergarten. And he hates it. Blaine’s eyes start to water, but he blinks back the tears. He’s already being treated like a little kid. He’s not about to start acting like one.

So he just nods his head, curtly.

“So just make up whatever story in your head that you want, okay, Blaine?”

_Please stop saying my name. Please._

He starts with the house. He thinks, maybe, he could live there. He keeps a potted flower in the window, and when he goes to water it every day, there’s a bee. It’s a nice bee, and Blaine doesn’t mind sharing his flower. One day, when he cuts up an apple for a snack, he leaves a slice of it out for the bee. Blaine thinks, maybe, the bee will like it.

This time, when the doctor flips the cards, Blaine can remember what the pictures are supposed to be. An apple, a bee, a flower, and a house. He doesn’t remember where they are, though.

He wants to flip the stupid cards over. He never wants to _see_ them again, he’s so frustrated. If his arms worked well enough, he’d be gripping his hair and pulling at his face, but he can hardly raise them past the height of his little table. He wants to flip the little table over, too.

“Blaine.” The doctor is trying to get his attention. She touches his arm, and he flinches away. He doesn’t like it when people touch him, unless it’s Cooper or his mom.

Unless it’s Kurt.

She doesn’t seem offended that he shrunk away from her, and holds her hands up in a placating gesture.

“It’s okay to be frustrated. It’s _okay_.”

No, it’s not. Blaine can do this, he _knows_ he can. He used to be able to do it. He should be able to do it.

Except that he can’t. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t. He just sees the pictures in his head, and can’t appreciate that for the triumph it is when another failure is staring him in the face.

“You were focusing on the pictures themselves. Do you remember them?”

It doesn’t matter that he can remember them, if he doesn’t remember where they’re supposed to _be_. Why can’t he do it? He _needs_ to be able to do it.

“Blaine, I can’t help you if you don’t help me. Did you remember the pictures?”

This time, his nod is much more reluctant, and he continues to stare at the cards, as if he’ll suddenly remember where they’re supposed to be. Like maybe he’ll remember everything that happened to him and answer all the questions no one will answer him.

“That’s really good, Blaine. You’re doing really good. We’re going to try one more time, okay? Can you do that for me?”

He wishes she wouldn’t talk to him in that voice. It makes him feel small, and hopeless, and _useless_. She doesn’t let him say yes or no, just turns the cards back over. He can remember his story, at least, and he thinks about it as he looks at the cards.

She waits a long time before she turns them over this time.

This time, Blaine remembers the pictures, and he remembers where they go.

It’s a bittersweet victory, when Blaine knows that he should be able to do it the first time.

The doctor writes in her notepad again, and then moves the cards from the table. Blaine hopes he never sees them again.

He’s surprised when she places down a blank sheet of paper and a thick marker.

“You’ve been regaining your physical ability really well, Blaine.” The doctor uncaps the marker, like she doesn’t think Blaine can do it himself. “So far you seem to remember how to do things.”

No. That’s wrong. He still can’t walk, and he can’t talk, and he can’t remember anything. How can she say he remembers things when he _doesn’t?_

“How about you try to write the alphabet?” She pushes the paper closer, and holds out the marker for him to take.

Blaine remembers the alphabet, but having the marker between his fingers feels a little strange. The movement in his hands came back first, but holding things—aside from Kurt’s or his mom’s hand—is a bit too foreign for him. His hand should remember, but it seems to have as much trouble as Blaine does.

The doctor doesn’t look too expectant. She probably thinks he can’t do it. Knowing the letters, and being able to write them, is different.

The letters are shaky, and unlike Blaine’s handwriting has ever looked, but they get smoother as he keeps going. The muscles remember faster than Blaine does, and his hand isn’t as steady as it should be by the time he finishes the Z, but Blaine feels confident. If he keeps practicing, he knows he’ll get better, he’ll _remember_.

For the first time all day, he feels a true sense of accomplishment, and smiles.

“Oh, Blaine!” His mom is right there beside him, clutching at his shoulder gently and staring down at the paper in wonder. Blaine doesn’t think it’s all that impressive, but his mom is practically crying. Then again, she cries a lot these days. More than Blaine has ever seen her cry.

“That’s so great, Blaine!” Maybe this doctor should be a kindergarten teacher. She’s good at talking to people like they’re children. “Can you write your name for me?”

He does. In fact, he writes it three times, and it looks a little less like a child’s scrawl and more like, well, _him_. It makes something warm burn in his chest, and he realizes that it’s _happiness_. Blaine has felt like he’s lost himself in the whir of the machines, in the starkness of the room. Conversations with Kurt have helped, of course, but it’s one thing to have someone else draw him out, and another to be able to find pieces of himself again.

The doctors might be telling him he’s getting better, but this is the first time Blaine’s thought it, himself.

Because he’s getting there.

*

His mom disappears for awhile, and when she comes back, she has something in her hands.

It’s a small, portable white board, a black marker clipped into the side of it.

“I thought you could use it to practice,” she says quietly, handing it to him. It’s such a simple gift, and yet, in that moment, in means so much to Blaine. It’s not just a way to practice, to get stronger, it’s a _voice_. After what feels like forever without one, his mom has just given him a voice.

Blaine feels like he could cry.

There are so many things he thinks to write, and his brain tumbles over words and sentences and it’s almost too much. He feels tears in his eyes, excitement rattling through him. He can’t talk, but he can write, and it’s close enough for now. He can communicate with people—with the doctors, with his mom, with _Kurt_.

“Just be careful, okay?” Her hand pets through his hair. It feels gross, and Blaine would kill to be able to shower. “I don’t want you exhausting yourself.”

Blaine wishes he could tell her that it’s not exhausting, but exhilarating. And then he realizes he can. It’s a little different than writing on paper, and his letters come out too sharp and big.

**I’m fine**

She presses a hand over her mouth, eyes glittering with tears, and kisses his forehead. Maybe she understands what this means, now. Blaine wonders if she’s missed his voice as much as he has.

He doesn’t have anything to erase with, so he uses the edge of his hand. His mom _tsks_ in displeasure.

“I’ll get you something for that tomorrow.” She picks up his hand and wipes it clean with a tissue, and he rolls his eyes.

Blaine could nod his head, but the thrill of writing is still too new. So he writes instead.

**OK**

Then he draws a face in the O and turns it sideways, and his mom laughs and smiles.

“Oh, my baby boy.” She kisses his temple this time, holding his head close to her chest in a way that isn’t exactly comfortable but doesn’t aggravate any of his still-healing injuries. She seems so relieved suddenly, and Blaine doesn’t know exactly why, but he’s glad.

Except... Then the questions are there. Blaine can feel them in his throat, but he still can’t form them into words. Not there. So he erases the board with his hand again, and takes a deep breath as he writes out the question.

He should wait. Some part of him knows he should wait. But he’s been waiting so, so long.

When he finishes, he taps the board insistently with the end of the marker, drawing his mom’s attention to it.

“Blaine?” She asks, confused, and then he taps it again, angling it in her direction. Her face falls, and Blaine feels an unpleasant turn in his stomach.

**What happened to me?**

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to my betas: Becca, Em, Jen, and Mary. ❤


End file.
